Buttercup5
by Sythar
Summary: This is what happens when the Princess Bride is recast with Babylon Five characters. Enjoy. thank you to 'The Rogue Bride' for inspiring this idea
1. Where are my Duck Dodger pyjamas?

BUTTERCUP 5

**CAST**

Westley: Marcus Cole

Buttercup: Susan Ivanova

Inigo Montoya: Michael Garibaldi

Fezzik: Kosh

Vizzini: Mr Morden

Prince Humperdink: Londo Mollari

Count Rugen: Bester

King: John Sheridan

Queen: Delenn

Miracle Max: G'kar

Vallerie: Na'Toth

Clergyman: Lennier

Captain Enforcer: Zack Allen

Albino: Vir Cotto

Grandfather: Jeffrey Sinclair

Mother: Talia Winters

Boy: David Sheridan

Old Crone: Zathras

**EVIL DIRECTORS**

**Constellation**

**Emperor Sythar The Black**

**Duke Montana**

_The beginning:_

Garibaldi was probably the first one to notice the change.

It was the small things, the lack of space outside the windows, the trees, the grass, the... horses.

The fact that he was suddenly divested of his super-class Duck Dodgers of the 21st and a Half century pyjamas and clothed in a pair of leggings, open-necked shirt, and very big boots. Was that a sword at his hip?

The first thing he thought was that a bunch of rogue telepaths had taken over his mind again and were playing a sick joke.

"uh. What do you want?" The voice sounded familiar, and yet unsure, as though trying to stay on familiar ground.

Garibaldi turned quickly, and found himself face to face with the clean-shaven, confused and _still smiling_ Mr Morden. "What are you doing here?"  
"You shouldn't ever answer a question with a question, Mr Garibaldi." Mr Morden's voice lacked its usual confidence. "I would like to know the same thing actually. It is a strange personal preference of mine to keep my dreams uninterrupted."

"Look," Garibaldi drew the very handy sword stuck into his sheath. "I'm the chief of security, asking questions is _my job_, and I'm the one with the sword. This is my dream until I say otherwise. Now, what. Are. You. Doing. Here."

"I have always been here," the easily-recognisable sound of a Vorlon voice split the air.

Garibaldi sighed.

It was going to be one of those dreams.

He massaged his forehead. "Right. This has _got_ to be the work of Bester."

There was a sudden clap of thunder, and three maniacal laughs followed in perfect harmony. The thunder was followed by a trumpet fanfare, and then, in the dead silence, a tiny little squeak.

"Everyone get here all right?" A female voice. "Good."

Garibaldi looked up. So did Morden. There was the swiveling noise of Kosh's encounter suit tilting his head back.

Above them floated three sinister figures sitting on large foldable chairs and holding megaphones.

"WHAT IS GOING ON?"

Garibaldi winced as he and Morden chorused to the heavy breathing of Kosh.

The female figure leaned close to one of the men. "_Must be questors_."

The imperial figure nodded. "Yes. We must suck them through a porthole sometime."

"I thought we already did."

"Excuse me..." the third man waved. "You down there. The insurance salesman..."

Garibaldi shook his head. "Can't be me he's talking about, must be you."

"People always mistake me for an insurance salesman. It's the grin, the well-combed hair, and the suit." Morden shrugged, turning to look up at the three figures in the directors' chairs. He smiled broadly. "What do you want?"

"You were right," the lady said. "He _is_ selling something."

"All the time," Morden said.

"Enough of this!" A clash of thunder rent the air as the imperial figure raised his hands. "I am Emperor Sythar the Black. I am one of your directors for this movie."

"Movie?" Garibaldi raised an eyebrow.

The lady spoke, ignoring him. "And I am Constellation."

"And I am Duke Montana," the third man waved again. He was beginning to remind Garibaldi of Vir. "Nice to meet you."

"What movie?" Garibaldi wasn't going to give up on this question until it was answered. He was good at doggedly following interrogations.

"Buttercup 5!" the three directors chorused to a long chord of orchestral music.

There was a silence, and then Emperor Sythar chuckled.

"Questors."

Garibaldi sighed. "Please don't tell me they let those darned monks rename the station."

"Don't you mean... Babylon 5?" Morden asked curiously.

"No." Constellation narrowed her eyes. "We meant Buttercup 5, the remake of The Princess Bride by... by... me, him, and him."

Garibaldi couldn't quite stop a snort. "So now we've got a bride, a princess, and a load of buttercups? Why don't people tell me these things? This could be a serious security breach!"

"You," Duke Montana said calmly. "Are Inigo Montoya, the swordmaster. Mr Morden is Vizzini, the cunning Sicilian. And Kosh is the friendly Turkish giant, Fezzik."

There was a long silence as Garibaldi examined his fingernails, Morden looked at the sky and tried to figure out what his associates would think of his strange new clothes, and Kosh breathed heavily.

There was a whirring click. "I am who?"

"Yes!" from somewhere far away came the voice of Captain Sheridan. "You got him to say something other than I have always been here!"

Constellation looked off in the direction the voice had come from. "Hush! You're meant to be the doddery old king. You only _have _ a few lines. Now go and drink some orange juice!" She turned back to them and looked at Kosh kindly. "You are Fezzik, the friendly Turkish Giant."

"I am not," Kosh seemed on firmer ground now. "I have always been..."

"YOU WILL BE SILENT!" Emperor Sythar rumbled, accompanied by the roar of a thousand spaceships and the cheering of millions of devoted fanatical followers.

Birds tweeted in the distance.

Kosh was silent.

"You are a Turkish wrestler," continued Constellation for the third time. "You like rhymes. You will stop saying Vorlonic things."

"Wrestler?" Garibaldi stared at Kosh's encounter suit. "How? He doesn't have arms!"

_This is going to be a hard sell,_ Constellation thought to herself.

"Look," Duke Montana said slowly. "You don't have any choice here. You don't get back to the station until we have finished our film."

"What do you say?" Constellation asked, her hands outstretched.

Morden shrugged. "I don't care. At least my head won't get chopped off."

"_No, but you do get poisoned by Marcus Cole,"_ someone whispered very quietly.

"Kosh?" Constellation continued.

"I have always..." he stopped, swiveled his head to check the three directors, and then nodded.

"Garibaldi?"

Garibaldi stopped looking at his fingernails and slowly slid the sword back into its sheath. "Nope."

"No?" Montana cocked his head on one side.

"No." Garibaldi shook his head. "I've got some unfinished cases in Down Below. I'm not going to waste my time on a stupid movie."

The directors looked at each other. Constellation nodded.

Montana spoke sweetly, in the voice normally associated with a governess offering a child a sweet. "You get to chop at things with a sword."

Garibaldi shook his head.

"You get to run around yelling 'My name is Inigo Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die!'"

"Doesn't strike any deep resonating chords," Garibaldi said dryly.

"You get..." Montana lowered his voice to a theatrical whisper. "To spend some quality scenes alone with Bester."

Garibaldi's head came up very slowly. A new light had entered his eyes. "Does that mean what I think it means?"

"Quality time," Constellation said. "With a sword."

"The little creep dies," Sythar boomed.

A smile spread across Garibaldi's face. "Now that," he said. "Is a good cause."

"Not your line!" Constellation snapped. "That belongs to G'kar!"  
Three hefty scripts fell out of the sky and narrowly missed their heads.

Then... the directors were gone.


	2. And so it begins

"ORDER on the set!" Sythar boomed through the megaphone he didn't really need. Somewhere, a volcano erupted. "Everyone prepare for the first scene!"

David Sheridan looked up from his bed and scowled. "How come I'm the kid?"  
"You are the only child we could think of in connection with Babylon 5 whom everyone would know," Constellation said wearily.

"But I don't even appear in the series!"

"We know, we know, now get ready to snivel and act like a grumpy grandchild who wants to be left alone to play computer games." Montana said.

"Why would I want to play these stupid things?" David asked. "The graphics are terrible!"

"SILENCE on the set!" Sythar yelled. "NO discussing idiotic opinions here or we will set the imperial hounds on you!"

In the distance, a thousand dogs bayed.

"Right," Constellation said in the silence that followed. "Roll 'em."

David coughed, jabbing at the controls of the video game with weary hands. His face was pale and wan, and he looked both sick – thanks to the makeup artists – and grumpy – thanks to Emperor Sythar.

The door opened, and Talia Winters entered, dressed in a business suit, and trying to smile in a motherly way. She reached out to ruffle his hair, and managed not to show how much the fact that she wasn't wearing gloves bothered her.

"You feeling any better?" she asked.

David rolled his eyes at the directors. "A little bit."

"Guess what?" Talia said.

"What?"

"Well, not _that_!" she pulled back slightly. "For a twelve-year-old, you have some extremely violent thoughts, young man!"

"Stick to the SCRIPT please!" Montana yelled through his megaphone.

Talia muttered something under her breath about the imaginations of today's youth. "Your grandfather is here."

"Moom," David groaned. "Can't you tell him that I'm sick?"

"You are sick," Talia said, adding under her breath, "_very sick_. That's why he's here."

"He'll pinch my cheek." There was a pause as they both tried to imagine Commander Sinclair pinching _anyone's_ cheek and failing miserably. Sythar cleared his throat. David nodded. "I hate that."

"Maybe he won't," Talia said, fervently.

David tried to look unbelieving, but only managed a glassy stare as the door opens. Commander Jeffrey Sinclair bustled into the room, showing every evidence of enjoying himself. He was dressed in a large overcoat, a hat, a grey wig, glasses, and an over-sized mustache.

He smiled at the room, the comforting smile normally reserved for Minbari and Rangers. He was holding a wrapped package under one arm. Very cheerfully, he leaned over David and pinched his cheek. "Hey. How's the sickie, eh?"

Talia pinched herself. From what she could glean from the Commander's mind, he was having the time of his life and thought that everything was very amusing. He had obviously been on Minbar too long.

David managed to shake off the shock long enough to stare in a moderately accusing way at Talia.

She smiled weakly. "I'll leave you two pals alone." She left quickly, and was transported back to Babylon 5. She spent the rest of the day at the bar drinking heavily and trying to explain to Dr Franklin exactly where all the others were.

Sinclair smiled at David, who was beginning to wish that Talia hadn't left him all alone with the Commander. "I brought you a special present."

"What is it?" David asked, thinking _Please don't let it be anything made by Minbari Monks_.

"Open it up."

David did so, smiling when he sees an ordinary book. "A book. Thank goodness!"

"LINES!" Constellation flashed a thunderbolt to the side of the bed. "You _aren't_ happy!"

Sinclair stamped out the smoldering carpet casually. That's right. When I was your age, television was called books. And this is a special book. It was the book my father used to read to me when I was sick, and I used to read it to your father. And today, I'm gonna read it to you." He smiles in a beat-that! kind of way.

David looked at the singed patch of carpet and gulped. "Has it got any sports in it?"  
"Are you kidding?" Sinclair yelped, flinging his hands into the air. "Fencing, fighting, torture, revenge, giants, monsters, a dream given form, a place where humans and aliens can work out their differences peacefully, two-thousand tons of spinning metal, our last best hope for peace, ALL ALONE IN THE NIGHT!" His arms flung out wide and he sprang out of his chair, beaming broadly.

"Please, please, please, stick to the script," Montana said in a weary voice.

David and Sinclair stare at each other, and then shrug.

"It doesn't sound too bad, I'll try to stay awake," David said.

"Oh, well thanks very much. It's very kind of you. Your vote of confidence is overwhelming," Sinclair sat down again and opened the book gingerly. "Buttercup 5 by S Morgenstern, except it really wasn't it was written by William Goldman, the lying..." he stopped and looked up at the directors. "Who wrote this script?"

They looked at each other innocently.

"Never mind. Chapter One. Ivan-ahem-B-buttercup was raised on a small farm in the country of Florin."

"CUT!" Sythar shouted. "That's a wrap!" A rousing military march struck up somewhere in the distance.


	3. Rabid Chipmunks!

To all who are reading this spoof. A. We do not own the rights to either B5 or the Princess Bride. B. As you have probably guessed by now, we are not trying in any sense of the word to be serious. This is a spoof, and as such can get silly. Very silly. Silly with little green cherries and chiuauas on top. Beware the directors! C. Thank you again to those of you who have read our story and reviewed it.

Ivanova was _not_ happy. She glared at the directors with a glare that singed even the great Emperor Sythar's robe. "Get me out of this dress."

"Now, Miss Ivanova, you look charming," Montana's voice dripped with sugar, honey, and even had a little cherry on top. It was a voice that he had spent three years in Director's School learning to cultivate. "The dress is absolutely necessary. Do try not to worry about it, and get into character?"  
Susan Ivanova scowled. "_I'll_ give _you_ something to worry about! I'm Commander Ivanova, killer of thousands, remover of limbs, I do NOT WEAR DRESSES! If you value those appendages you so optimistically call arms, send me back to the Station NOW!."

Constellation cleared her throat. "I'm terribly sorry, but your temporal contract states that you have to stay in Florin until your part in the movie is finished. It is beyond even our powers to return you until the contract is filled."

"It could be fun," Marcus said cheerfully, swishing his pitchfork back and forth in a nonchalant easy-going, and terribly irritating manner. Marcus always managed to do everything with the sort of nonchalance that was very sinister.

Susan turned a weary gaze to the directors. "So I don't have a choice?"

"Nope."

"No choice at all?"

"Nope."

"You can't think of one even with the threat of sudden disembowelment hanging over your head?"

Short pause.

"Nope."

Marcus's voice filtered through from the background. _"I can think of something to do with these pitchforks, half-a-dozen minbari batteries and a couple of these horses' teeth... no minbari batteries? Well scratch that idea then. How about laser beams? Rabid chipmunks?"_

Susan sighed deeply. "Then let's get it over with as quickly as possible."

"Right!" Montana's voice was tinged with relief. "Places. Roll 'em!"

The scene opens, a lovely rolling countryside. Ivanova rides a large horse very awkwardly towards a cottage. Sinclair's voice carries over the scene, abominably cheerful.

"Her favorite pastimes were riding her horse and tormenting the farm boy who worked there. His name was Marcus..." there was a pause, and some earnest whispering. "I mean Westley, but she never called him that. Isn't that a wonderful beginning?"

David had a forced grin in his voice. "Yeah. That's really good."

"Nothing gave Ivano-ahem-B-buttercup more pleasure," Sinclair continued. "As ordering Westley around." He added in a lower voice. "Well that explains a lot."

Ivanova got off her horse with great relief and stood in the field in front of a ramshackle stable. In the background Marcus pitched hay around, tossing it into the air without really seeming to care where it came down. He stopped suddenly and looked up at her. Intense gazes were no problem for him.

Ivanova shifted, beginning to feel more than a little uneasy under his stare. She spoke her lines quickly, managing to barely move her face. "Farm boy. Polish my saddle. I want to see my face shining in it by morning."

Marcus nodded slowly, still staring. His eyes were almost on fire. "Nuzen felani enaliz medrawn."

Ivanova blinked a couple of time and tried to get rid of the feeling of deja-vu. Then she turned and walked away, managing not to run.

"_How the heck am I meant to say that?"_ Sinclair whispered very loudly into the Marcus-Stare-infested silence that followed.

"_You're the one who lived in Minbar all that time_." David snapped back.

There was a pause. Then, "Nuzen fe-felani enaliz medrawn was all he ever said to her."

The scene shifted to show Marcus. He was chopping wood quite happily in a little yard in front of the house.

Ivanova walked up to him and plonked two heavy looking buckets down very violently. "Farm boy," she still hadn't quite gotten used to calling him that. "Fill these with water... please." The please was strained, as though spoken between clenched teeth.

Marcus looked up at her, his eyes still very intense, but a cheerful grin on his face. " Nuzen felani enaliz medrawn."

Ivanova drew back a fist threateningly, she spoke in a very low undertone. "I'm warning you, Marcus. Either stop saying that, tell me what it means, or I'll..."

"LINES!" Sythar shouted.

Ivanova glared at him and moved off, still muttering. Marcus didn't seem in the least perturbed. In fact, he picked up the buckets and went off to try to find somewhere to fill them with water.

"That day," Sinclair said. "She was amazed to discover that when he said," a pause. "_This is going to kill me._ ' Nuzen felani enaliz medrawn', what he meant was, "You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen."

From somewhere off stage, Ivanova shouted, "HAH! So _that's_ what it means... wait a minute...!"  
"Silence on the set! Places!" Sythar shouted. The sound of a star going super nova almost drowned him out. He turned his head to look at the sky. "All right, all right, calm down!"

The scene changed again. Ivanova stood near the sink of the little cottage, holding a (carefully blunted) knife. The lighting was very soft, very romantic. Slowly, Marcus pushed open the door and walked in with an armload of firewood.

"And even more amazing," Sinclair said. "_Very amazing_. Was the day when she realised that she truly loved him back. _Somehow, I think it would take a near-death experience to do that_."

Ivanova looked at him strangely, and shifted further away from him. Marcus turned and walked towards the door. He was almost outside again, when Ivanova spoke. "Farm Boy."

He stopped and leveled the hot-as-a-thousand-burning-stars gaze at her.

Ivanova waved the knife at a pitcher hanging conveniently above her head. "Uh. Fetch me that pitcher?"

Marcus nodded, walked over and pulled it down. He handed it to her with a little bow. For a moment they were very close.

"Nuzen felani enaliz medrawn." Marcus whispered, turned, and left the cottage.

Then the scene changed again.

The sun sets over the beautiful hills behind the cottage. Marcus and Ivanova stood silhouetted against the sky. Marcus gingerly put his arms around Ivanova.

They drew closer. Closer...

"Hold it, hold it!" David's voice broke between them.

Ivanova pulled back, looking slightly disappointed.

"That was TOO soon!" Marcus yelled.

"Cut!" Sythar said sharply. "Wrap it."


	4. Don't Get Me Started On Fasting!

Once again, we do not and have never owned the rights to Babylon5 or the Princess Bride.

Sinclair and David lounged on the bed.

"So, I heard you got a death threat from both Marcus _and_ Ivanova," Sinclair said cheerfully. "That's pretty good going for somebody who's only twelve."

"Add that to the fact that Bester, Londo, and the Drakh want to kill me as well..." David said.

"True, true," Sinclair nodded.

"PLACES!" Constellation yelled. After the recent super-nova incident, the directors had decided not to allow Sythar to do the yelling for a while.

Sinclair hurriedly hopped off the bed and settled into the chair, fishing '_Buttercup 5'_ from somewhere around his person. He put on the glasses and peered over the top of them at David. "How's this?"  
"Fine," David pulled a sick you-have-got-to-be-kidding-me face. "How's that?"

"Wonderful."

"_Roll 'em!_" Montana yelled. There was the clicking of the clapper-board.

David frowned. "What is this? Are you trying to trick me? Where's the sports?" He paused, lowering his voice to a tone of utter horror. "Is this a Kissing Book?"

Sinclair blinked the triple-question marks out of his eyes. "Wait... just wait..."

"Well, when does it get good?"

"About Season Three," Sinclair said automatically.

"Wasn't that after you left the station?" David asked.

"Coincidence." Sinclair wasn't even fazed. "Keep your shirt on. Let me read." He continued reading smoothly. "Westley had no money for marriage. So he packed his few belongings and left the farm to seek his fortune across the sea."

"_Aaaand_ that's the end of another of our scenes," David yelled, flinging his hands up in the air.

"Cut," Sythar said wearily. He turned to the other directors. "We'll edit that out later."

"Marcus..."

"Mmhmm?"  
"Do you really think I'm the most beautiful woman you've ever seen, or was that simply another of your ways to annoy me?"

Marcus looked at her intently again. He had discovered that this, too, annoyed her. He opened his mouth...

"PLACES!" Constellation yelled.

"_Darn_!" Ivanova walked to her place in front of YASS (Yet Another Setting Sun). Marcus joined her. They half-embraced.

Montana took a deep breath. "Roolll eeeeemmmmmm!"

Sinclair spoke over the scene. "It was a very emotional time for Ivan-ahem-B-buttercup."

"I don't belieeeve this," David whined.

"Neither do I," Sinclair said. "Ivanova? Emotional? In any other way than 'I'm-going-to-rip-out-your-tongue-and-mince-it-up-and-feed-it-to-you emotional?"  
Marcus cleared his throat loudly. The talking ceased.

"I fear I'll never see you again," Ivanova said.

Marcus smiled, suddenly very reassuring. "Of course you will."

"But what if something happens to you?" Ivanova thought for a moment. "Like you die suddenly in an alien life-transferral machine?"  
"I'm not saying that couldn't happen," Marcus said cheerfully. "Never trust alien life-transferral machines. But hear this now," he became very serious. "I will come for you."

Ivanova stared into his eyes. "But how can you be sure?"

Marcus paused, and then smiled broadly. "This. This is true love. Do you think this happens every day?"

Slowly, but definitely, they kissed. Then Marcus let go, and waved over his shoulder as he walked off down the lane. Ivanova waved back, and then stared at her hand in disbelief.

"_I don't believe that just happened..."_ Sinclair said loudly.

David spluttered. "We're on, we're on!"

"Oops." There was a slight gasp, and then silence for a few seconds. "Westley didn't reach his destination. His ship was attacked by the Dread Pirate Roberts who never left captives alive. When Buttercup got news that Westley was murdered..."

"Murdered by pirates is good," David interjected.

The scene did a close up of Ivanova, staring out a window. Her expression is dead.

"She went into her room and shut the door. And for days she neither slept nor ate..."

David piped up again. "Hey, my mother does that. It's called a fast, and..."

"Don't get me started on fasting," Sinclair said bitterly. "Shut up."

Ivanova spoke emotionlessly. "Love is always unrequited..."

"LINE!" Sythar boomed to the sound of distant shelling.

"I will never love again," Ivanova didn't even miss a beat.

"CUT!" Constellation said quickly. "That's a wrap. Wonderful acting, Miss Ivanova."

"I just watched the episodes of Shortland Street taped on your DVD recorder," Ivanova said sweetly. "It taught me so much." She added in an undertone, "How to throw up in ten-seconds flat."

The directors weren't listening. They were screaming in horror.


	5. The Great Emperor Humperdink

Once more, we humbly thank our readers for their attention. We ask that people would feel free to reveiw this story. And we state that we have never and will never own the rights to Babylon 5 or The Princess Bride. Thank you for listening to this announcement. We will now return you to your program.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Londo Mollari was impressed by his costume. It had, perhaps, a little too much fabric and not enough gold, but it was a fine style and very well made. He admired himself in the huge mirror that Constellation had erected for him. "Fine, fine. This will do." He searched around for something to say that had an 'r' in it. He enjoyed rolling his 'r's and splattering the effect into people's faces. It was fun. Especially when you were a very powerful Centauri, and there was not much that people could do about it. "What did you say we werrrre doing again?"

"You are the great and powerful Prince Humperdink," Constellation said in a flattering voice. "Ruler of Florin."

"Emperrrorrr," Londo said firmly. "I will not settle for anything less."

"I'm afraid the script specifies that you have to be a Prince, at least until your father the King – or Emperor, if you prefer, dies," Montana said. "But on the bright side, your character gets engaged to Ivanova, gets to kill Marcus, plans all kinds of evil and sinister deeds – including the total destruction of a rival country – and basically has fun throughout the whole movie!"

Londo quirked an eyebrow. Something had been bothering him. "We will forrrget the point of me marrrying Ivanova forr the moment. Who exactly is my father?"  
"I am your father!" Sheridan said, appearing suddenly. He was clothed in ornate robes, and was wearing extraordinarily extreme makeup which managed to make him appear about 156.

"_You?_" Londo Mollari was honestly stunned. "You are my father? How is that possible? You are not even centauri!"

Sheridan shook his head, disturbing the long white wig he was wearing. "Look, if Sinclair can go back in time and become Valin, the famous religious leader of the minbari, then I don't see why I can't be the father of the Centauri Emperor. We have to keep things fair, you know."

Londo blinked. "If you are my father, then who is my mother?" He didn't really want to know the answer. He had a sneaking suspicion... yes.

Delenn popped up beside Sheriden. Londo managed to smother something that was dangerously close to a giggle. She was also made up to look a couple of centuries old, but someone had seen fit to try to hide her headbone, and the result was an interesting looking deformity that bore a slight resemblance to a crown. Sort of. A flesh-coloured crown.

The same makeup artist had then tried to cover this mutation with the wig. But this, this just made the whole concoction look like something out of 'Webber's Guide To Bizarre Lifeforms'.

He managed to stifle his laughter and smiled cheerfully at Sheridan and Delenn. "I see. So it is a nice family gathering, yes? We arre putting the whole Shadow debacle behind us, hmm?" He paused, enjoyed the moment. "One question. Can I call you Dad?"

"PLACES Everyone!" Montana lowered his megaphone and looked with proprietary glee at the castle. It was a very good castle, and he was proud of it. They had managed to purloin it from somewhere in the middle ages. It had a few disorientated Norman soldiers still roaming around in it looking for someone called Robin Hood, but it was a perfect specimen of medieval architecture. And anyway. He liked to watch Ivanova beat up the Normans.

The royal family gathered at the top of one of the towers. Bester looked bemusedly around himself as he stood next to Londo. He still wasn't quite sure what had happened. But someone was stopping Sheridan from strangling him, so life was good.

"Five years later," Sinclair said over the scene. "The main square of Florin Castle was filled as never before to hear the announcement of the great Emperor Humperdink's bride-to-be."

Someone choked.

Londo strode forwards to the edge of the balcony and raised his hands. For a moment he stared out at the huge gathering of extras beneath him. Then he smiled. "My people... a month from now, our country will have its 500th anniversary. On that sundown, we will have a big party, yes?"

The extras knew that this was not quite the right line, but it sounded good to them anyway. They cheered.

"With lots of food, yes?"

More cheering.

"And alcohol, hmmm?"  
Much more cheering. It went on for a very very long time.

Londo paused and glanced at Sheridan and Delenn. "Now why can't I make that sort of impression on _my_ people?"

Sythar cleared his throat. He was not pleased that there was another emperor around. His displeasure expressed itself in a sudden earthquake.

Londo got back to the script quickly. "Oh yes, and I shall marry a lady who was once a commoner like yourselves." He paused again. "Any chance that it could be Adira?"

The three directors shook their heads.

"Very well. But perhaps you will not find her so common now..." Londo smiled down at the crowd, showing them his teeth. "Would you like to meet her?"  
The extras nodded. They would agree to anything as long as they were invited to the party. "YESS!"

"_It's your funeral,"_ Londo muttered.

Slowly, a figure appeared in the doorway that led into the courtyard. The crowd held its breath. Ivanova walked in majestically, dressed in a gown that shimmered in the light. Beautiful.

"If only you knew how much trouble it was to get her into that dress," Constellation said softly.

"My people," Londo said, a little over-awed himself. "The princess Buttercup!"

Ivanova sent him a glare, and then walked out to mingle with the extras. Considering the thunder and lightning in her face, it wasn't that surprising that everyone knelt.

The extras were more than a little shaky. They could hear what she was muttering under her breath.

No one had bothered to tell them that Buttercup was the scariest thing between hell and earth that they were ever likely to see. And that was being complimentary.

Then Ivanova stopped and stood among the kneeling people.

Sinclair cleared his throat loudly. He seemed to have some trouble speaking, almost as though he was trying not to laugh. "Buttercup's emptiness consumed her _and everyone around her_. Although the law of the land gave Humperdink the right to choose his bride, she did not love him."

"That's for darn sure!" David exclaimed loudly. "He's just lucky she isn't close enough to rip off his hair!"

"CUT!" Constellation said loudly. "Wrap it! Well acted, Miss Ivanova! Very good with your lines!" "But she didn't have any," Londo said, in a mildly put-out voice.

"Never mind." Montana clapped his clapper board a couple of times for silence. "She was still perfect."

The directors had learned that Ivanova was always right. Always.


	6. Vizinni she can fuss

We join you with yet another installment of Buttercup 5!!! Thank you for reading and please, don't forget to tip the ushers. Thank you. We don't own any of the rights, but we are having a lot of fun.

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"PLACES!" Constellation was getting tired of shouting. She had a little trained dwarf sitting on her lap and feeding her throat lozenges.

Ivanova stared at the horse. The horse stared at Ivanova.

"Give me any trouble," Ivanova said grimly. "And I'll rip off your skin and sell it as dishcloths!"

She mounted gingerly. The horse was noticeably quiet, and didn't move an inch.

"ROLL EM!" Constellation accepted another lozenge and patted her dwarf on the head contentedly. A director's life was a happy one.

Sinclair spoke, as Ivanova rode slowly around Florin's beautiful countryside. "Despite the great Emperor Humperdink's reassurance that she would grow to love him, the only joy she found was in tormenting her daily horse."

"Sinclair..." Montana's voice was sinister. "Care to try out the theory that you could come back from the dead like Sheridan?"

Silence.

Ivanova rode the horse down the hill, galloping into the wooded glen. She wasn't sure when she was going to stop until she saw them and nearly fell off the animal.

Was Garibaldi honestly wearing an open-necked shirt? And holding a sword?? Standing with Morden??? And KOSH???? Ivanova's brain couldn't handle all the question marks.

She started laughing.

Morden flushed and cleared his throat. "A word, My Lady? We are but poor lost circus performers..."

Ivanova stopped laughing for a moment. "That would explain a lot."

"Is there a village nearby?" Morden continued. Working for ultimate evil had given him good training in keeping track of his line of thought.

Ivanova couldn't speak her line. She was laughing too hard. There was a long, long long pause as the two men looked at one another and Kosh breathed deeply.

Morden cleared his throat.

Nothing happened.

He tried again.

Still nothing.

"Oh to heck with this!" Morden turned to Kosh. "_Then-there-will-be-no-one-to-hear-you-scream-or-laugh-at-us_. Kosh. Hit her over the head. Please!"

Kosh swiveled his head to look at Morden. He breathed deeply.

Ivanova laughed harder. "How? He doesn't have any arms!"

"Susan," Garibaldi said. "Breathe. You're going to fall off."

Morden was red in the face. "Why didn't you build any arms into that stupid suit? You Vorlons are all alike! All 'here' and no brains! JUST KNOCK HER OUT ALREADY!!!"

A laser zipped out of a handy hole in Kosh's suit and hit Ivanova lightly. She slumped over on the horse, and fell off into Garibaldi's arms.

"Thank you!" Morden slapped his forehead.

"CUT!" Montana's voice was strained. "Should we shoot that again?"

"No, it'll do," Sythar boomed. "And Morden really got into character. He was beginning to splutter just like Vizzini."

"PLACES!!!" Constellation bellowed loudly.

Sythar and Montana quickly finished tying Ivanova over what vaguely resembled Kosh's shoulder. They returned to their director's chairs, ignoring the nigh-hysterical laughter coming from not only Ivanova, but also Garibaldi and Morden.

Kosh breathed heavily.

"I said PLACES, Mr Garibaldi!!!" Constellation glared at him.

Garibaldi wiped a tear from his eyes and nodded to the irate director. "Yeah, yeah, your Stellar Grumpiness." With a smooth leap, he jumped from the side of the bank and into a medium sized boat that was moored nearby.

Everyone paused.

Morden managed to stop laughing. Ivanova stopped too, and began to wriggle.

Kosh breathed heavily.

"ROLL 'EM!!!" Sythar boomed. A thousand worlds flung out of their orbits somewhere in the universe and crashed together. The other two directors glared at Sythar. He shrugged semi-guiltily.

Morden yanked the horse over to where he was and began to stick scraps of fabric into the saddle.

Garibaldi leaned nonchalantly over the side of the boat. "What's that you're ripping?"  
Morden looked up. "It's fabric from the uniform of an Army Officer of Narn."

Kosh breathed heavily. The breathing paused. The head swiveled slightly and looked at Morden. "Who are the Narn?"

Morden blinked. He felt as though something was rooting around in his brain, and he didn't like it. "The country across the sea, the sworn enemy of Florin, or Centauri Prime as it has just been renamed by the Great Emperor Humperdink!"

Somewhere, cymbals clashed. Sythar glared at the sky.

"He's stealing my special effects!!!" The cymbals stopped.

Morden slapped the horse's rump. "Go!" He jumped backwards as two very quick hooves shot out at his head. Then the horse cantered away, very glad to be running in the opposite direction from Ivanova.  
The hoofbeats died into the distance and both Morden and Kosh began to move towards the boat.

"Once the horse reaches the castle, the fabric will make the Great Emperor think that the Narn have kidnapped his love. When he finds her body on the next spaceship coming in, his suspicions will be confirmed and then he'll kill Lord Refa and..." Morden stopped and glanced over both shoulders. "Did I say that aloud? It's that darned Vorlon poking around in my head!!"

"Lines Please!" All three directors chorused.

"QUESTORS!" Montana cheered loudly.

Silence.

Birds chirruped.

"You never said anything about killing anybody." Kosh said slowly.

Morden jumped onto the boat, glad to be moving away from the deep-breathing Vorlon. "I've hired you to help me start a war. That's a prestigious line of work with a long and glorious tradition. In fact, if we're talking about the Centauri and the Narn, there really isn't any work in it at all."

Kosh suddenly took off and hovered over onto the boat. His voice got very deep. "I don't think it is right. Killing an innocent girl."

"Am I going mad, or did the word 'think' cross your lips?" Morden asked sharply. The hole that passed for Kosh's mouth began to glow and Morden continued very quickly. "You were not hired to be an inspirational speaker, you hippopo... my fine Vorlonic friend."

Garibaldi carefully untied Ivanova from Kosh's 'shoulder' and let her down on the deck. Then he sauntered casually back to the group. "I agree with Fezzik."

Morden shuffled around until Garibaldi was between him and Kosh, his usual smile found its way onto his face. "Oh, The sot has spoken. What happens to her is not truly your concern. _I_ will kill her," he paused and glanced at Ivanova. "_How?_" He shrugged, and then continued, louder. "And remember this, never forget this... when I found you, you were so slobbering drunk that you couldn't buy brandy!"Slowly, a sense of danger crept up Morden's spine. He glanced up at Garibaldi, and gulped.

There was a loud thud.

Kosh breathed heavily as Morden screamed.

"No.. please no... by dose is bleedink! I can't swim! No! Gaaaaah!"

splash!

Garibaldi dusted off his hands on his trousers and walked back to Kosh. "Susan? Could you finish Morden's line?"  
Ivanova leapt to her feet and pulled a script out of her back pocket. "Sure." She flipped through it for a moment. Kosh breathed deeply and swiveled his head towards the faint cries for help coming from the sea.

Then Ivanova began to shout, advancing menacingly on the Vorlon. "And _you_! Friendless, brainless, helpless, hopeless!! Do you really want me to send you back to where you were? All alone in the night???"

Kosh backed away slowly. If he could have blinked, he would have.

Everyone applauded, except for the dripping Morden who was slowly climbing over the side of the boat.

Ivanova bowed slightly.

Garibaldi leaned close to Kosh. "That Vizzini, he---she can fuss..."

Kosh was silent.

"Fuss." Garibaldi repeated.

More silence. Kosh breathed heavily.

"I'll make it easy for you," Garibaldi said slowly. "It's like she doesn't _care_."

"I have always been here," Kosh said happily, glad to be back on firm ground.

"Probably she means no harm..."

"DON'T you COUNT on it, Michael!" Ivanova shouted. "I've had just about as much as I can bear..."

"I have always been here," Kosh put in, helpfully.

"Oh, you've got a great gift for rhyme," Garibaldi said with deep sarcasm.

Kosh nodded. "Good."

"Enough of that," Ivanova snapped, cutting in before Morden could speak the line.

The ship pulled away and began to sail out over the sea.

Garibaldi shouted, "Fezzik, are there rocks out here?"

"They have always been there," Kosh boomed.

Morden made a half-hearted attempt to speak his line, but Ivanova over-rode him loudly. "No more rhyming now, or I'll rip off your limbs!"

There was a profound, Vorlon-breathing-filled silence.

Then, quietly, "And so, it begins," Kosh said.

"CUT!!!" Montana said, in a strained, dubious voice. "A little unusual, and it would be nice if the characters would stay in their _own_ roles, but I think it will pass."


	7. A Vorlon Fisherman

Here we are again! We have yet to catch up with ourselves, so we update rather frequently. I do hope that nobody minds. Of course, we'd update anyway. To re-iterate what we have been stating since the beginning: We don't own the rights. But you knew that.

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"RRRRROOOLLLL 'EMM!" Constellation said quickly, as Sythar opened his mouth.

It was night-time, and the boat was speeding over the waters.

Morden nodded to Garibaldi, back in his role at last. "We'll reach the Cliffs by dawn."

Garibaldi glanced over his shoulder.

"Why are you doing that?" Morden asked.

"Making sure that no one is following us."

"That," Morden said, a note of relish creeping into his voice. "Would be in-con-ceivable!"

Sythar's military band struck up loudly in the night air. A choir cheered. Canons boomed. Morden looked pleased.

Ivanova glared at him. "Despite what you think, you will be caught. And then your head will be chopped off and put on a pike as a warning to ten generations that some favors come at too high a price, and everybody will wave like this..." she twiddled her fingers and smiled... evilly.

"Of all the necks on this boat, Highness," Morden said, nervously. "You really should be worrying about your own the most." His fingers crept to his throat.

Garibaldi looked over his shoulder again.

"Stop doing that!" Morden said, his fingers still dancing at his throat. "We can all relax, it's almost over."

Garibaldi looked at him, and grinned. Morden backed up a step. "You're sure that no one is following us?"

"I told you, it would be absolutely and utterly inconceivable. No one in Narn knows what we are up to, and no one in Centauri Prime could have gotten here so fast... just out of curiosity, why do you ask?"  
"No reason," Garibaldi walked away from the edge of the boat. "It's only... I just happened to look behind us and something is there."

"What?" Morden dashed to the side and glared into the darkness. For a moment he almost forgot that he was acting a role.

There in the middle of the darkened sea was a boat bearing some resemblance to a large white spaceship.

Kosh hovered over to join Morden and Garibaldi sauntered back, his hands in his pockets.

"Probably just some local fisherman out for a pleasure cruise at night in eel-infested waters..." Morden said.

"Looks like Vorlon technology," Garibaldi said helpfully.

Morden glared. "Well maybe its a VORLON fisherman then!"

"We have always been here," Kosh said to no one in particular.

"See?" Morden was triumphant.

Before the conversation could go any further, there was a splash. The three turned to see Ivanova swimming away in the dark water.

"Go in, get AFTER her!" Morden screamed, beginning to froth at the mouth.

"I don't swim," said Garibaldi. "Not much call for it in a space station thousands of miles from earth. Would you care for a handkerchief? You're spitting at me."

Morden turned to Kosh.

Kosh looked back at him and breathed heavily. After a moment, "I only hover."

"Left! Veer left!" Morden shoved them towards the tiller and gazed after Ivanova.

She was swimming away at an alarming rate. Suddenly, a high-pitched shrieking noise split the air. The three actors on the boat glanced at each other.

"Do you know what that sound is, Highness?" Morden said, a gleeful note entering his voice. "Those are the Shrieking Eels. If you doubt me, just wait a moment. They always get louder just before they feed on human flesh."

Ivanova gave him a withering glance, but stopped swimming, mostly because her script said she had to.

The shrieking got louder.

"If you will swim back now," Morden said. "I promise no harm will come to you. I doubt you will get such an offer from the eels."

Ivanova poked her tongue out at him.

The shrieking got louder.

Garibaldi hummed happily, poring over the tiller.

Morden threw him a glance. "Aren't you at all concerned?"  
"Nope."

"Why not?"  
"Ivanova."

"It is wrong to kill innocent creatures," Kosh boomed.

"If she gets back on the boat, she'll be fine!" Morden yelled, more spittle flying from his mouth.

"I meant the eels." Kosh rumbled, a small windscreen wiper removing the moisture from his suit.

Then suddenly the shrieking got very loud and a huge evil slimy head poked above the water and began to move towards Ivanova. She yawned. It started to circle, getting closer and closer and closer.

The men leaned over the side of the boat, watching.

The eel was very close, it opened its mouth...

Sinclair's voice spoke over the scene. "She doesn't get eaten by the eels at this time."

"AND CUT! Garibaldi! Get Ivanova away from that poor eel, we paid a lot for that thing!" Constellation shook her head and accepted another lozenge from her dwarf. "Never again," she muttered darkly. "Next time, I'm using Next Generation Actors. They're so glad to get a real story that they'll do everything you ask!"


	8. The Cliffs of Insanity

Hello again. This update is dedicated to all our reviewers, with special thanks to C.A. LeSabre. We hope fervently that you will continue to enjoy our offerings (and continue to reveiw).

We do not own any of this stuff... except the actual writing... and yet we don't own the alphabet or the language, just the way the alphabet is arranged to form these stories... and yet...

Sorry. On with the story.

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The background dissolved to a dawn scene, where the ship sailed across the waters, closely pursued by the white vorlonic vessel. Now a man in black can be seen at the tiller. Every time they looked back towards him, he waved. One hand seemed to be incessantly snapping a long staff in and out.

Garibaldi glanced back. "Look, he's right on top of us. I think I can hear an odd sound coming from his boat."

Everyone leaned forwards, straining to hear. Faintly, very faintly, the sound of cheerful singing carried across the water.

"I am the very model of a modern major general, I've information vegetable, animal, and mineral..."

"You know," Garibaldi said thoughtfully. "It almost sounds like Gilbert and Sullivan."

Ivanova grinned. "A Vorlon fisherman singing Gilbert and Sullivan?"

"Inconceivable!" Morden said. "Whatever he is singing, he is too late anyway. See? The Cliffs of Insanity!"

Thunder rent the air as they looked up towards a huge and terrible mass of cliffs, much too high to be real. The two boats rushed towards the cliffs, the white ship closing in swiftly. Morden's ship sails towards a cove with careful precision. They dock and Morden jumped about like a little jack-in-a-box.

"Move it! Move it! Pull the thing, the other thing, no! Stupid Vorlon! Move it!" He gasped for breath, his face red and sweating. "We're safe. Only Fezzik is strong enough to go up our way, he'll have to sail around for hours until he finds a harbour."

There was a very long pause as Ivanova and Garibaldi looked from Kosh to the Cliffs and back again.

"Did you say 'safe'?" Ivanova asked slowly. "Kosh? Cliffs? Anyone else having a problem with this?"  
"How is he going to climb?" Garibaldi demanded, refusing to leave the boat.

Kosh's head swiveled up slowly as he looked up towards the very top of the endless cliff. A long rope swung from the top down towards them. For a moment his deep breathing paused. "I could hover..." he said, a note of uncertainty in his voice.

"Fine, fine, whatever," Morden said, linking a huge harness over the Vorlon's encounter suit and strapping himself in. "What are you waiting for? Strap her in!"

Garibaldi slowly tied Ivanova into the harness, and then secured himself in as well, glancing nervously at the expanse of cliff over which they had to travel. "Kosh. You know how you've always said you've always been here? Well get us to that 'here' quickly, huh?"  
There was a slight jolt, and then they began to rise slowly, Kosh hovering up the cliff face, following the path of the rope.

The white ship slipped into the cove below and the man in black jumped to the shore. Without pausing, he grabbed hold of the rope and began to climb after them.

Garibaldi glanced down, and looked slightly ill. "Are you sure this thing can hold us?"

"Are you talking about Kosh or the harness?" Morden asked.

"Both."

"Don't think about that."

"Oh." Garibaldi paused. "Why did we need the rope?"

"For Marcus- I mean the man in black-, of course," Ivanova said sharply. "He can't hover."

Kosh breathed heavily and continued to fly up the cliff at a steady pace, like a wasp trying to find the opening in a window.

Morden cleared his throat loudly and glared at Garibaldi.

"Oh, yeah. He's climbing the rope, and I think he's gaining on us." Garibaldi looked down again, and shook his head. "That is a scary sight."

Morden took a self-important breath and pronounced, uttering each syllable clearly and rhythmically. "In-con-cei-va-ble!"  
Thunderous applause greeted him, and he bowed as well as he could in the harness.

The man in black climbed quickly up the rope at a ridiculously fast pace, still humming. "I've got a little list... they'd none of them be missed..."

"Faster!" Morden screamed loudly, flecks of spittle flying into the air.

Kosh breathed heavily. "I thought I was going faster."

"You were supposed to be this great legendary being!!" Morden snapped. "You were supposed to be one of the great ones from before the dawn of time! And yet he gains!"

"I am carrying three people," Kosh said. "It is overheating my suit."

"I do not accept excuses!!" Morden spat the exclamation marks into the air. "I'm just going to have to find myself another armless greeny-brown monosyllabic being."

Kosh breathed heavily. "I have always been here," he said sulkily. He began to hover up the cliff more slowly, but below the man in black was still humming and still climbing.

They were nearing the top of the cliff, and the Man in Black was right underneath them, still speeding along.

Morden lowered his voice to a hiss. "Did I make it clear that your Job is at stake??"

"Good." Kosh said calmly as he hovered to the top of the cliff and onto solid ground.

Morden jumped off and grabbed for the rope. Quickly he began to saw away at it with a knife as Garibaldi, Ivanova, and Kosh disentangled themselves.

"What are you doing?" Ivanova asked sharply. "There aren't any safety nets or anything down there!"  
"Hush..." Morden hissed, looking more than mildly insane. "It's in the script."

Ivanova took a few quick steps towards him, but before she could reach him the rope broke and slithered down the cliff face. The humming stopped.

Everyone rushed to the edge and peered down. Nothing could be seen.

Morden grinned. "Well, what d'you know, I actually killed someone!"

Ivanova darted towards him, her hands going out in a sharp shoving motion towards the small of his back. Garibaldi grabbed her and they struggled wildly as Kosh looked on and Morden chuckled.

Kosh leant forwards. "He has very good arms."

Morden stopped laughing and blinked down the cliff face. When he saw the distant figure of the Man in Black clinging to the cliff, his face fell. "Aww. He didn't fall? Inconceivable."

He was blithely unaware of the pair of hands creeping slowly around his neck. Garibaldi gently shoved Ivanova back. "You keep using that word, I do not think it means what you think it means." He looked down, and paled slightly. "My god. He's climbing!"

"He's what??" Ivanova forgot about Morden and leant forwards to look for herself. "How?"  
Morden shook his head. "Whoever he is, he's obviously seen us with the princess, and must therefore die." He nodded to Kosh. "You, carry her. You," he turned to Garibaldi, "We'll head straight for Narn. Catch up when he's dead. If he falls, fine. If not, the sword."

Garibaldi glanced at his sword and raised an eyebrow. "I have a strange inclination to duel him left handed."

"You know what a hurry we're in..." Morden began, spitting in Garibaldi's face again.

Garibaldi calmly pulled out a handkerchief and dried himself off. "With one hand tied behind my back, blindfolded, wearing a fedora, and singing a weird Draazi song backwards." He grinned. "it's the only way I can be satisfied, otherwise, it's over too quickly."

Morden blinked at him. "You can sing in Draazi?"

"LINES!!!" Montana growled.

"Oh well, have it your way," Morden said to both of them. "Your funeral."

Kosh leaned close to Garibaldi. "Be careful. People in masks cannot be trusted."

"HAH!" everyone yelled. "Vorlons always wear masks!!!"  
"I'm waiting..." Morden shouted.

Kosh breathed heavily for a moment, and then hovered after him, Ivanova secured back into the harness.


	9. But I'm not a Spaniard!

And here, for all our readers' pleasure, is that scene that you all have been waiting for! The magnificent, the bedazzling... Marcus vs Garibaldi swordfight!

(Oh, and in case you didn't realise the last eight or so times we said it: We don't own this)

Garibaldi glanced after them and then sauntered casually over to the edge of the cliff. He bent and peered down. The Man in Black was still climbing.

Garibaldi waved cheerfully and then sauntered away again. Slowly, and with an amount of dubious curiosity, he drew the sword out of its sheath and slashed at the air.

The blade flickered like a tongue of lightning. Garibaldi smiled, and jumped forwards, lunging out with the blade. Up in a parry. Down in a block. Out in a jabbing counter-stroke. His movements were fast, very fast.

Then he paused and glanced up towards the directors. "When I got here," he said slowly. "I didn't know what a sword looked like. Anyone care to explain how I suddenly became so good at this kind of thing?"

There was a flurry of agitated whispering, and then Montana turned back to him. "We fixed it," he hissed. "Until the end of the film, you're a fencing legend."

Garibaldi pursed his lips thoughtfully and raised an eyebrow. The sword licked out in a swift, pinning lunge. He smiled. "Cool."

"If you don't mind," Marcus called in a strained voice. "It is getting just a tad difficult to climb down here."

"Sorry." Garibaldi paced for a few moments, lunging at shadows and then hopped back to the edge of the cliff and leaned over. "Hello there!"

Marcus looked up and grunted.

"Slow going?" Garibaldi asked.

"Look," Marcus grabbed out with a black-gloved hand and hung onto the cliff face. "I really don't mean to be rude, but this is rather more difficult than trying to work out a Vorlon word puzzle. So I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't distract me."

"Sorry."

"Thank you."

Garibaldi backed away from the edge and experimentally lunged at the air again. Perfection. He smiled evilly. This was a lot more fun than he had thought it would be. He stepped back to the edge and looked down again. "I don't suppose you could hurry things up?"

"If you're in such a hurry," Marcus said, a hint of testiness entering his voice. "You could lower a rope, or a tree branch, or find something useful to do, like freeing Captain Sheridan from Earthforce or some such thing."

"Been there," Garibaldi said cheerfully. "Done that. But I do have some rope here with me. However, I do not think that you will accept my help since I am only waiting around to kill you."

"That does put a damper on our relationship." Marcus shifted slightly to reach for another hold. For one breathless second it looked as though he was going to slip. Then his hand gripped another crevice and he steadied himself. "_Why,"_ he muttered. "_Do I have to do all the dangerous stunts around here? Do they sit in some kind of tea-room talking about 'how we are going to torture Marcus today?'"_

"But," Garibaldi said loudly. "I promise I will not kill you until you reach the top!"

Marcus looked up at him and smiled thinly. "That's very comforting, and I wish to hell that the script would let me accept, but I'm afraid you will just have to wait."

"I hate waiting." Garibaldi stroked his chin for a moment. "I could give you my word as a Security chief?"

"Actually I would accept that," Marcus said. "But I thought you were supposed to give me your word as a Spaniard first?"  
"I'm not Spanish."

"And then you're supposed to swear on the soul of Domingo Montoya..."

"Now why," Garibaldi said calmly. "Would you trust me if I swear on the soul of some dead guy who I don't even know?"  
Marcus sighed. "He is supposed to be your father."

"Nope, can't remember him at all." Garibaldi frowned slightly. "Only got one father, and _he_ was _Italian_."

Marcus thought for a moment. "Michael," he said finally. "Stop fighting it. My arms are a milli-second away from falling off."

"All right, all right. I swear on the soul of," he paused. "_Alfredo_ Montoya that you will reach the top alive."

"Throw me the bloody rope!" Marcus yelled.

Quickly, Garibaldi dashed back to where the rope was coiled around a boulder and unwound some of it. He then let it down over the edge of the cliff until it dangled within Marcus's reach. As soon as he could feel the other man's weight on the end, he started to pull the rope up.

Slowly, very slowly, the weight rose. Then Marcus's head appeared over the edge of the cliff, then his arms, and finally he rolled onto safe ground.

Garibaldi puffed heavily. "How many friggin' bricks did you have in your pockets."

Marcus rose to his feet, staggered slightly, and made his way over to a rock. He sat down and reached into his right-hand pocket. With a flourish, he produced a greyish brick and tossed it over the cliff. "Only one." He nodded to Garibaldi. "Thank you."

"We'll wait until you're ready," Garibaldi said, making a slight bow.

"Again, thank you." Marcus pulled off a boot and shook it upside down. Several large rocks rolled out and skittered over the ground. He grimaced at them. "_Oh yes, they just love thinking up new ways of making me suffer..._"

"I don't mean to pry," Garibaldi said grimly. "But I can't help but notice that you're wearing black gloves. You wouldn't by any chance have six fingers on your right hand, would you?"

Marcus glanced up and met Garibaldi's gaze. "Do you begin all conversations in this way?"  
"My father was slaughtered by a six fingered man," Garibaldi sat down with a little sigh. "He was a great cook, my father. Always used to make me Bagna Cauda on my birthday. Anyway, when the six fingered man appeared and requested a special sword, my father took the job. He slaved a year before it was done." He drew his sword again and handed it over to Marcus.

Marcus took it, turning it over and smiling as the light glinted off the gold and precious stones. "I have never seen its equal... of course, I've never seen very many swords at all, so that doesn't exactly say much. Please, continue."

Garibaldi took the sword back and held it before his face, watching as the light reflected off it. "The six fingered man came back and demanded the sword, but at one tenth of its original price. When my father refused, the six fingered man slashed him through the heart. And _then_ he got inside my head and brainwashed me into betraying my friend straight into the hands of his most deadly enemies _and _taunted me with it _and_ programmed me so that I couldn't kill him afterwards." Garibaldi glowered evilly at his reflection in the blade.

Marcus cleared his throat. "How... old were you?" It really didn't seem the right thing to say, but then nothing did.

"Marcus, it wasn't that friggin' long ago," Garibaldi rolled his eyes. "But the next time we meet, I will not fail. I will go up to the six-fingered worm and say, "Hello, my name is Michael Garibaldi, you messed with my mind, prepare to die writhing in excruciating pain and agony."

A muscle on Garibaldi's forehead jumped, and his fists were so tightly clenched that Marcus could see them growing white. When Garibaldi started to chuckle, he cleared his throat again. "You've done nothing but study swordplay?" Again, it didn't seem to fit somehow.

"What study?" Garibaldi's eyes cleared slightly and he focused his gaze on Marcus. "I just turned up here and I was the greatest fencer in the whole world. But the directors say I'm not allowed to go after the six-fingered slimy snake until the end of the movie, so I'm working with Mord- Vizzini to pay the bills. There isn't much money in revenge."

Marcus dusted his palms against his trousers and sprang to his feet. "Well, I hope you find him someday."

"You're ready then?" Garibaldi asked, rising as well.

Marcus wasn't sure that he liked the smile that was on Garibaldi's face. "Whether I am or not, you've been more than fair."

Garibaldi swung the sword in front of him and executed a dazzling display of slashing skill. "You seem a decent fellow... I hate to kill you."

Marcus backed away slightly and drew his own sword. "_You_ seem a decent fellow. I hate to die."

"Begin!" Garibaldi stepped forwards, his sword striking lightly off Marcus's, testing the steel.

Marcus struck back. They began to circle, slowly moving around each other, their swords licking out every few seconds, teasing and prying, searching for a gap in each others' defenses.

Garibaldi was the first to lunge in earnest. His sword lashed out like a whip, clashing against Marcus's and driving him back a step. Without pausing or hesitating, Marcus parried it away and the fight was joined in earnest.

Back and forth across the bumpy ground they fought, neither of them seeming to gain the upper hand. Both skillful and quick as lighting. Then Garibaldi somehow managed to maneuver Marcus so that he was backing up a rock-covered slope.

"You're using Bonetti's defense against me, ah?" Garibaldi said, the thrill of the fight ringing through his voice.

Marcus grinned, just as exuberant. "I thought it fitting, considering the rocky terrain."

"Naturally," Garibaldi pressed him back further. "You expect me to attack with Capo Ferro?"

"Naturally," Marcus faltered slightly, and then changed his fighting style. "But I find that the Bonehead Maneuver cancels out Capo Ferro, don't you?" He paused, teetering on the very edge of a rocky outcrop. The he turned smoothly and jumped to the sand below.

Garibaldi looked down at him. "Unless the enemy has studied his Valin..." he stepped to the edge, took a quick breath and jumped. He somersaulted fantastically straight over Marcus's head and landed facing him. A beam of surprised delight spread over his face. "Y'know, I just might never go home."

They closed again, fighting even more ferociously then before. Marcus was fast, terribly fast, his black sword darting around the gold one in a dizzying, blinding pattern of movement. But Garibaldi was just as fast.

Forwards and backwards they fought, all the time creeping closer to the edge of the cliffs. Finally, Garibaldi saw the edge behind him, saw what Marcus was trying to do. His fighting grew more fantastic as he strove to push his way forwards again, but Marcus was better. No matter what Garibaldi tried, Marcus turned it back. And the cliffs grew closer.

Death grew closer.

"You're wonderful!" Garibaldi said sincerely.

"Thank you," Marcus said. "I wish I could say that it was through my own hard work, but it just seems to come very very naturally."

Garibaldi took another step backwards. "I admit it," he said, risking a glance towards the dizzying drop behind him. "You are better than I am."

"Then why are you smiling?" Marcus asked.

Garibaldi blinked, and then quickly grinned. "Heh. Uh, Because I know something you do not."

"And what is that?"

"I am not left-handed..." Garibaldi threw his sword into his right hand, and blinked at it. "I'm not?"

Marcus tried an experimental thrust, and Garibaldi's sword flickered up to block it. "Apparently not." he said helpfully.

With a metallic clang, their swords met again, and this time Garibaldi easily pressed away from the drop and began to drive his opponent before him. At first the change was gradual, but it swiftly grew more obvious, more definite. Marcus found himself being driven back faster and faster.

He was no longer the one in command of the battle, Garibaldi was.

They jabbed and darted at each other, slowly moving towards a tall stone staircase magically growing out of the rocks for no apparent reason.

Garibaldi was like fire and lightning and the wind all at once, his sword point drove Marcus back up the steps at a dizzying rate. No trick that Marcus tried could slow him down.

"You are amazing," Marcus said fervently, ducking a slashing swipe that threatened to remove his head.

"I ought to be," Garibaldi said calmly. "My character has been training for twenty years." With a fantastic spin, he pinned Marcus deftly against a pillar, his sword slowly forcing Marcus's back.

Marcus gasped for breath. "There's something I should probably have mentioned some time ago," he said.

"Tell me."

"I am not left-handed either!" Marcus changed hands and pushed Garibaldi away from him. A crazy little smile curved over his lips and he began to hum... 'when the foeman bares his steel, tarantara, tarantara...'

Garibaldi blinked, his sword lashing out almost on its own volition. But Marcus blocked it. Their swords were both moving at such speed that they were nearly invisible, but Marcus was the one driving Garibaldi backwards now.

In a smooth and liquid motion, Marcus jabbed out and Garibaldi's sword flew from his hand and stuck in the dirt below them.

Without pausing to think about it, Garibaldi retreated two steps and then dove off the stairway and grabbed a bar suspended from an archway. Elegantly, he swung out and dropped down beside his sword.

Marcus smiled. With his own patented casualness, he threw his own sword down to the ground and leaped towards the bar. He swung over it three times, did a somersault, three back-flips, and a corkscrew, and landed on the ground in the splits. Then he leapt to his feet and pulled his sword from the ground before turning to Garibaldi and bowing.

Garibaldi closed his mouth. "Who are you?"

"No one of consequence," Marcus said cheerfully. "And please stop talking like a Vorlon."

"I _must_ know."

"Get used to disappointment."

Garibaldi shrugged. "Not in my business, but as we're in the middle of a fight, I'll waive the question. For now." With a leap forwards, he closed the battle again. He was on the attack, his sword thrusting and slashing and biting in a blindingly fast burst of movement.

Marcus blocked them all. He was humming again. Then he leant forwards and slashed out in one of his own moves. Garibaldi countered it and attacked again.

But Marcus's sword was there. With a final twist and spin, the point caught the six-fingered sword and tugged it out of Garibaldi's hand, sending it flying across the scene. Garibaldi stared after it, and for a moment it looked as though he was going to attack Marcus with his bare hands.

But Marcus shook his head, the tip of his weapon darting up to point at Garibaldi's throat.

Garibaldi glared, one hand groping for his PPG. It wasn't there. "Damn." He sighed and folded his arms. "Okay, okay. You win. Kill me quickly and pray that I don't haunt you for the rest of your life."

"I would rather have rabid squirrels stuffed down my trousers than destroy such an artist as yourself. Besides, who else would invite me to his Bagna Cauda parties?" Marcus paused. "But, I can't have you following me either..." he pretended to clunk Garibaldi over the head, and Garibaldi pretended to fall unconscious. "Please understand that I hold you in the deepest respect."

Marcus nodded to Garibaldi's prone figure and began to hum again. Then he dashed off down the trail.

"CUT!" Constellation shouted. "That, my friends, is a wrap!"

Hi again. We would appreciate it if people would review this story. No pressure, but it is hard to tell if we are being read otherwise. You will get imaginary confectionary and updates for your troubles!


	10. Kosh SMASH!

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(We don't own this, not at all, we swear on the blood of our nordic/european/scottish/or whatever ancesters!)

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Montana smiled down at the cast. His smile was odd.

Marcus waved. "I don't suppose you have noticed, but there are fangs poking over your bottom lip."

"Really?" Montana turned to Sythar. "A shrewd master of observation, that man."

Sythar nodded. Then his smile dropped. He seemed to be frozen by the sight of the three-inch long incisors that Montana was suddenly sporting. "Uh. Where did they come from?"  
"Someone..." Montana looked reverently up to the sky. "Has a Vampire addiction."

"Ah."

"Excuse me," Marcus waved again. "Do pardon me for intruding, but it is rather hot down here, and some of us have been forced to wear layers of black. If you wouldn't mind?"

"Sorry," the directors chorused. There was a pause, and they all looked at each other.

"Somebody say it!" Constellation sighed.

From a corner in the galaxy, a tiny little voice squeaked, "Questors!" A shot rang out and there was the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the dirt.

Montana lowered his gun and looked innocently at the sky. "Where were we? Ah, yes. PLACES!!!"

Everyone stared. There was a long pause, and then the actors scuttled to their places.

"ROLL EM!"

Morden glanced down the long rocky slope. In the distance, the black figure of Marcus could be seen clearly. Morden shook his head. "In... In..." he smiled broadly. "Incon..."

"This is getting me down," Ivanova growled.

A pair of cymbals clashed. Morden glared. "I haven't said it yet!"

"They know," Ivanova nodded in the direction the sound had been coming from. It was replaced with a low rumble of an angry mob. "Stop dragging out your lines."

"Inconceivable," he said sulkilly. "You lot ruin all my fun."

"It's my job," Ivanova said. "I foil your fun, and Londo gets to kill you. Personally, I think Londo hogs the best jobs."

"Give her to me!" Morden snapped, grabbing Ivanova's arm. He began to hurry away up the mountainside. Then he paused and looked back at Kosh. He spoke carefully and clearly. "Catch up with us quickly."

Kosh breathed heavily. "What do I do?"  
"Finish him!" Morden twitched slightly, spittle flying everywhere. "Finish him. Your way!"

"Good." Kosh paused. He breathed heavily. He looked at the sky. Then his head swiveled to face Morden. "How?"  
Morden scowled and waved a hand frenetically at a few rocks close by. He came dangerously close to hitting Ivanova. "Pick up a rock. Get behind a boulder. In a few minutes, the Marcus in Black will come running around the corner. The minute his head is in view..." Morden flung out his arms again and Ivanova ducked sharply. "...Hit it with the rock!!" He began to cackle. And then to choke.

Ivanova snorted. "Pick up a rock? I know I've said this before, but your tiny little mind doesn't seem to have grasped it yet. He doesn't have any _arms_."

"Never mind!" Morden screeched, grabbing her hand again and tugging her towards the pathway up the cliff. "He'll figure it out." He laughed again. There was another sound, the sound of Ivanova sniggering.

Kosh watched them go and made a slow clicking thoughtful noise. "My way is not very sportsmanlike."

A long white beam came out of his helmet and surrounded one of the rocks. Slowly, it lifted off the ground and hovered over to him. He moved backwards with it to stand behind a large craggy heap of volcanic rock.

Marcus dashed into the scene. He hesitated near the boulder, and then shook his head cheerfully and continued forwards. A rock hovered into view and landed at his feet gently like a gift.

Marcus looked at it and raised an eyebrow. Carefully, he leant forwards and peered around the boulder. "Kosh? I mean... Fezzik? What are you doing back there?"  
"I have always been here," Kosh said.

"Well that proves one thing," Marcus said. "You're not an impostor. Why are you levitating rocks to my feet?"

"I did that on purpose," Kosh said gravely. "I don't have to miss."

"I will pretend that I believe you." Marcus drew his sword and bowed. "So, what happens now?"  
Kosh thought for a moment. "We shall face each other as God intended. No weapons. Skill against skill alone."

Marcus blinked, and then tried to hide a snigger. "You mean you'll put down your rock, and I'll put down my sword and we'll try to kill each other like civilized people? Are you sure you're a real Vorlon?"  
"Yes."

"Not a squeaky puppet?"

"Yes."

"Because they had these puppet shows on Minbar, you know. And I never could tell the difference."

Kosh's mouth began to glow. "I could kill you now..."

Marcus shook his head and took off his sword belt, throwing both the belt and sword to the ground. "Frankly, I feel that the odds are slightly in my favour at hand fighting."

"Good." Kosh moved forwards smoothly.

Marcus went into a crouch. He paused for a second and then dashed forwards. His hands went out to grab for the Vorlon, but hit a barrier of air. Again he tried, and again. His hands seemed to be grappling for egg yolks in water. There was no purchase.

Kosh breathed heavily.

After a moment, Marcus looked at him, a hint of accusation in his face. "Look, are you just fiddling around with me, or what?"  
"I just wish for you to feel that you are doing well," Kosh said. "I would hate for you to die embarrassed."

Marcus grimaced. "You know, I can't help feeling that this isn't quite fair. You have all those special Vorlon knick-knacks, and I'm not even allowed my sword."

Kosh almost seemed to smile. "You have arms."

"Gah!" Marcus reeled back a step. "Was that a joke? Did you just make a joke?" He passed a hand in front of his eyes. "Be still my beating heart."

"Yes." Kosh suddenly moved forwards. He streamed towards Marcus, glinting in the sun.

With a quick roll, Marcus slipped to the side and dodged around the Vorlon, appearing behind him.

"You are fast," Kosh turned.

Marcus nodded. "And a good thing, too."

"Who are you?" Kosh cocked his head to once side and began to levitate into the air. "Why do you wear a mask? Were you burned by acid when you were a child, or something of that sort?"  
"Oh no," Marcus shifted uneasily, keeping his eyes on the Vorlon. "It's just that they're terribly comfortable. I think everyone will be wearing them in the future. In fact, I see that you already are wearing one. Welcome to the brotherhood. We'll send you your complimentary badge later on. Unless there isn't one, in which case you won't be getting..."

Kosh darted forwards, his head lowering to aim straight for Marcus's chest. Marcus dodged, but Kosh followed him. Marcus quickly rolled and grabbed one arm around the Vorlon's neck, leaping onto his back. Kosh flickered from side to side, trying to dislodge the ranger, but Marcus hung on grimly, one hand latched onto Kosh's head, the other hooked into a weird crevice in the encounter suit.

"I have calculated why you have been giving me so much trouble," Kosh said seriously, leveling out again.

"Why is that, do you think?"

"I have not fought one human for a long time. I have fought Shadows, and Darkness, and All Evil." Kosh backed Marcus into a boulder heavily.

Oof. The air was driven out of Marcus's lungs. "D'you think that makes a lot of difference? It couldn't be because you don't have any arms, could it?"  
"No. I have no arms for a reason," Kosh shook his head. "They get in the way of the universe."

"Wonderful. Makes sense to me." Marcus pretended to be throttling the Vorlon. "I suppose a proper neck would be just as much of a barrier to the universe?"  
"Yes."

"Kosh?"  
"Yes?"  
"You're meant to faint."

Kosh breathed heavily. And then he sank to the ground and toppled over. Marcus slipped off just in time and wiped a hand across his brow.

"I do not envy you the headache you will have when you wake," he said. "But, in the meantime, sleep well and dream of Universal Women."

"Women are a barrier to..."

"Quiet." Marcus began to leave, following the path that Morden had taken. "You have always been here. So shut up!" He was gone. There was just Kosh left...

breathing...

heavily.

"Cut." It was a whisper from Montana. A small, evil whisper. "Zhat iz a wrap. Mwahahahah!"


	11. That would teach them a lesson

Just a short update this time. Next update is HUGE, so we didn't think you would mind.

Anyway, blah blah we don't own this blah blah we don't own that blah blah you know the drill.

xxxxxxx

Londo Mollari shifted uncomfortably beside his large white horse. He glanced up at the directors and then looked to Bester, who was mounted on a horse a little way behind him.

"You, telepath..." he raised an eyebrow. "Can you tell me when these people are going to start the scene, hmm?"

Bester nodded at Constellation. "She is dreaming of her paid vacation. He..." he looked at Sythar. Sythar met his gaze, and his eyes narrowed. "Gah! His thoughts are screaming in my head. Get him out! Get him out!"

"What about him?" Londo asked, pointing at Montana.

Montana smiled, his fangs seeming to grow another centimeter in length.

"I don't want to know." Bester moved the horse back a few paces and rubbed at his temples.

"Roll 'em," Constellation said.

Londo sighed and began to pace around the scene. With infinite care he placed his feet in the marks that had been left by Marcus and Garibaldi. For a moment, he frowned, touching a finger to his forehead, and then he looked up at Bester.

"Yes, I know. There was a mighty duel..." Bester said.

"Stop reading my lines." Londo replied. "It is not right."

Bester raised an eyebrow. "Your lines?" He smiled. "I was reading your mind."

"There was a great duel." Londo glared at Bester. "It ranged all over. They were both masters."

"If there was a great duel, how come there is no blood?"  
"I do not know!" Londo stamped hard at one of the marks and half erased it from the earth. "When Centauri fight, that is proper dueling. Wine, women, song, and death, yes? A good way to go. Here, neither went. Or, rather, they both did."

"What are you talking about?" Bester rubbed his forehead again. It was barely worthwhile reading the minds around him, they brought more pain than enlightenment.

Londo looked off into the distance. "The loser, he ran off alone." He paused. "Coward."

In the distance, the vague and undecipherable shouts of Garibaldi could be heard.

Londo shrugged them off. "The winner followed the footprints towards Narn."

"Shall we track them both?" Bester asked. "And kill them?"  
"That would teach them a lesson," Londo said cheerfully. "But the loser is nothing. Only the Princess matters. Clearly this was all planned by the treacherous Narns. We will bomb their country into submission, we will teach them who is master, we will triumph!" He rubbed his hands together.

Bester sighed deeply. For the moment, it seemed that he was doomed to ask all the inane questions that the directors wanted answered. "Do you think it might be a trap? No, I can see that you don't. Never mind, say that you do anyway, and let's get this scene finished."

"You ruin everything, do you know that?" Londo said.

"Yes. It is my one consolation."

With a hefty leap, Londo managed to make it onto his horse. "As to yourrr question: I think everrrrything is a trrrap. This is why I am still alive, hmmm? Yes, somebody wrote this charrracterr forr me." He turned the horse and rode off. After a moment, Bester followed.

"CUT!" Sythar boomed. Everyone ducked.

Nothing happened.

Then... there was a faint hiss and a sudden pop.

Sythar glared at Montana. "You and your fangs are ruining all my lovely sound effects!"


	12. Let The Punishment Fit The Crime

We love allour reviewers. We do. The more we get reviewed, the quicker we update (little hint there). However, there are two reviewers who deserve a special mention. The first is C. A. LeSabre, who has followed us faithfully for quite some time now. But the Fan of the Month award ges to... Natters!! Guess our surprise when we opened our e-mail inbox and found 11 reviews waiting for us!! Thank you. You all know who you are. (My fellow director... I mean writer, has this to say on the subject of reviewers: "Reviews give us a reason to live. They add meaning to our humble esistance...")

Yes we have no riiiighhhts, we have no rigggghhhhts todaaaaay

xxxxx

"Hey... be careful with that! You'll have my eye out!"

Constellation blinked at Montana. "Why did it sound as though Morden was shouting at someone?"  
Montana nodded towards the actors milling around a small group of rocks at the crown of one of the hills. "Down there. Ivanova got Morden's knife... don't ask me how. I'm not sure what she's doing with it, scaring him, I expect."

"Look, _I'm_ supposed to be in CHARGE here!"

The knot of actors broke up, many of them dabbing at their faces with handkerchiefs. Constellation peered at them, leaning out of her director's chair.

Ivanova waved the knife in Morden's direction coolly. "Remind me to call on you the next time the station is suffering from a drought."

"Have you quite finished yet?" Morden spluttered, backing away from the knife's glittering arc. "If so, would you _mind_ giving me back my knife? It was a present from someone."

Montana sighed, and cleared his throat.

No one took any notice. Ivanova slipped out of Morden's reach and laughed. "Someone? A shadow... or perhaps Mrs Sheridan? Is there a Mrs Morden? Does she smile all the time too?"

Constellation cleared her throat.

Several extras began to lay bets on who was going to keep the knife. Someone started cheering Ivanova. Quite a few people joined in.

Another 'wit' was drumming two rocks together and chanting 'Kill him, Kill him, Kill him,"

It took a little time for Constellation to realised that this person was Sheridan.

Sythar cleared his throat. The ground shook slightly.

Silence.

All eyes were suddenly fixed on the three directors. Nobody blinked.

"Places," he said mildly. A flotilla of sweet little birds circled the ground three times, singing a chorus from Handel's Messiah.

All the actors who were not in the scene found out that they had somewhere else they desperately had to be. In three and one quarter seconds, Ivanova and Morden were alone.

She passed Morden the knife without a word and sat down on a rock.

Morden smiled smugly. "Knew I'd get it back."

Constellation clapped her hands three times, a gaggle of gnomes bustled up the mountain and set out a bueatiful spread on a clean red-an-white checkered table cloth in front of Ivanova. One bowed gallantly to her, and held up a length of rope.

"If the lady would permit?"

Ivanova raised an eyebrow. The hairs on the gnomes nose singed slightly. Then she smiled. "Of course."

He tied her up very carefully and scuttled away, closely followed by the rest of his group.

"Ready? All set? Go!" Montana blew a whistle that was suddenly hanging around his neck.

There was a long, dead silence.

"Uh..." Morden spoke up in a small voice. "Isn't she supposed to have a blindfold on?"

He was sitting slightly behind her, pointing his beloved knife at her throat. Somehow she still managed to glare at him.

It was a talent of hers.

"SHH!" All the directors chorused. The gnomes had gone. They were unlikely to return while Ivanova was around. She would have to simply be un-blindfolded.

There was another pause.

Morden stared at the fingernails of his free hand.

Ivanova sighed.

Then... in the distance... the sound of faint and yet relentless humming could be heard. "In a tree by a river, a little tomtit, singing willow tit willow tit willow..."

Ivanova and Morden stared at each other.

"Exactly how much Gilbert and Sullivan does he know?" Morden asked under his breath.

"I have a terrible feeling that we have only begun to scratch the surface," Ivanova replied.

Marcus ran quickly up the hill. As soon as he spotted them, his humming stopped and he slowed down.

Morden picked up an apple and took a bite out of it. Then he spat something that looked very much like wax onto the ground.

Marcus smiled.

"So," Morden said quickly, just managing not to choke. "It is down to you, and it is down to me."

Marcus nodded and continued to smile. He took a few more steps.

"If you wish her dead, by all means keep on moving!" Morden jabbed tentatively with his knife.

Marcus froze. His smile dropped, and an evilly dangerous glint came into his eyes. "Let. Me. Explain." It sounded more as though he wanted to grab the knife and use it to disembowel Morden.

Morden gulped. His life-expectancy seemed to be dropping by the minute. "T-there's nothing to explain. You are trying to kidnap what I have rightfully stolen!"

"Perhaps and arrangement can be reached, Morden. Maybe even one that doesn't involve a long and painful death for you... oops." An angelic expression crossed his face and he put his hand to his mouth. "Did I say that last bit aloud? Sorry."

"What have I told you, Marcus?" Ivanova said. "Less 'death' in your threats. More mutilation."

"There will be no arrangement," Morden interupted desperately. "Or death. At least," he added. "Not mine. You are killing her!" He jabbed again with his knife.

Ivanova grimaced. "You're going to do me an injury with that thing," she whispered.

Marcus raised his hand, freezing. "If there can be no arrangement, then we are at an impasse."

"I'm afraid so," Marcus relaxed slightly. "I'm no match for you physically, and you are no match for my brains."

Marcus coughed. "You're that smart?" He coughed again.

Ivanova's shoulders began to shake.

"Let me put it this way," Morden said loudly. "Have you ever heard of Lorien? Kosh? Valin?"

"Ye-ess," Marcus said slowly.

Morden smiled. "Morons."

"Reeeaaally?" Marcus developed a sudden choking fit. Ivanova was less tactful. She dissolved into a storm of laughter. "In that case, I challenge you to a battle of wits."

"For the psycho-- Princess?" Morden asked.

Marcus nodded.

Morden glanced at Marcus, and then at Ivanova. "I accept."

For a moment, the Man in Black frowned. "Hang on, there's a bit missing."

"No there isn't."

"Are you sure?"  
"Yes."

"You haven't forgotten anything?"  
"_NO!_"

Marcus dashed spittle out of his eyes. "I think there was a little line that went..."

"To the death," Ivanova said darkly.

Morden shivered. "Oh yes, that bit. Ah, yes. To the death. Ha ha."

Marcus nodded. "I accept."

"That's my line too."

"You already said it."

"Oh. Yes."

"Good. I'm so glad we have that settled. Pour the wine."

Morden pulled two pewter goblets towards him and poured a long stream of red-coloured water into each. Marcus sat oposite him and pulled a small data crystal from his clothing. He stared at it for a second, glanced at Ivanova, blushed slightly, and put it away again. After another rumage, he came up with a small centauri statuette. "Ah. Here it is." He pulled the head off with a twist and passed it to Morden. "Here, inhale this."

Morden took the statuette and sniffed at it, reaching out with a finger-tip to dab at the surface.

"Stop!" Constellation shouted. "Marcus!!!"

"Oh, sorry." Marcus looked completely unrepentant. "I was supposed to tell you not to touch. Oops again."

Morden pulled his finger back and glanced at the directors uneasily. "It will be fake poison, won't it? This is all acting, isn't it?"

There was a short silence, and then Ivanova shifted slightly. "After all, they did get real shrieking eels."

Morden shuddered again, and gave the statuette back to Marcus. "I don't smell anything."

"What you do not smell," Marcus said smoothly. "Is a binary poison. It is odorless, tasteless, dissolves instantly in liquid, and is one of the deadlier poisons known to man."

"Hmmm," Morden flinched slightly at the mention of 'binary poison'.

Marcus grinned and took the goblets, turning his back on Morden. He started to hum again. "Let the punishment fit the crime..."

After a few moments he turned back around and deposited the statuette on the ground. He quickly juggled the glasses from one hand the the other without spilling a drop and then placed them on the grass between himself and Morden. "All right Where is the poison? The battle of wits has begun. It ends when you decide and we both drink. Then we find out that I am right and you are dead." He smiled. His smile, Morden thought, was growing more unnerving by the minute.

With a forced smiled, Morden leaned forwards and stared into Marcus's eyes. "But it's so simple! Alll I have to do is divine from what I know of you. Are you the sort of man who would put the poison into his own cup or his enemy's?"  
Marcus and Ivanova exchanged a look and then shrugged. "I don't know," they chorused.

"It was a rhetorical question, fools!" Morden hissed."Now, a clever man would put the poison into his own goblet, because he would know that only a great fool would reach for what he was given. I'm not a great fool, so I can clearly not choose the wine in front of you..."

Ivanova rolled her eyes at Marcus. "He's going to choose the wine in front of you."

"I know," Marcus said cheerfully."

"SILENCE!" Morden shouted. There was quite a respectable rumble in the air, and everyone looked surprised. "Now, where was I? Oh yes. But you must have known I was not a great fool; you would have counted on it, so I can clearly not choose the wine in front of me." He took a deep breath.

"You've decided then?" Marcus asked.

"Not even remotely!" Morden said triumphantly. "Because 'binary poison' is often used by Shadow agents as everyone knows. And Shadow agents are almost all criminals. And criminals are used to having people not trust them..."

"I'm sure it is very distressing for you," Marcus interjected. "No doubt you need a great deal of counseling."

"You can say that again," Ivanova said.

Morden sighed. "You people are the ones who make it hard for me to smile cheerfully every day, you know? Anyway... blah blah blah and you are not trusted by me."

"I'm hurt! Wounded! I'll never get over it. Finish the line."

"So I can clearly not choose the wine in front of you!" A note of desperation had entered Morden's voice. He was beginning to sweat. "Truly," Marcus tried not to chuckle. "You have a dizzying intellect."

"Wait till I get going!" Morden pressed a hand to his forehead. "Where was I?"

"You were a Shadow agent..."

"I prefer to call them associates."

"So sorry."

"Anyway, you must have suspected that I would know of the powder's origin. After all, everyone seems to know about _that_ little business now. So I can clearly not choose the wine in front of... who was it this time? I'm beginning to lose count."

"I think we were back to you." Marcus tugged on his beard. "But I could be wrong. Anyway. I think you're stalling."

Morden cackled weakly. "You'd like to think that, wouldn't you? You've beaten my Vorlon, which means that you have an incredibly strong stomach. So, you could have put the poison in your own goblet, trusting on your iron constitution to save you. So I can clearly not choose the wine in front of you. But you've also beaten my Security Chief, which means you must have studied and must be incredibly lucky. And in studying you must have learned that man is mortal so you would have put the poison as far from yourself as possible, so I can clearly not choose the wine in front of me!!!" Morden dropped his head and panted heavily.

Marcus clapped. "Oh very nicely done, I'm not sure that I kept track of all the wines though. Whose was it that you weren't going to choose now?"

"Please don't start," Morden said.

"Sorry. I think you're trying to trick me into giving something away. But it won't work. I'm a ranger. The only things we give away are cryptic messages... oh... and great big lumps on the head. If you want one of those I can probably help you out."

"It has worked. You've given everything away! I know where the poison is."

"Then make your choice." Marcus's voice lowered and darkened, becoming very implacable.

"I-I will. And I choose..." he paused and pointed at something behind Marcus. "What in world can that be???"

Marcus sighed and slowly turned around. "I can't believe that my character falls for such an old, stupid, idiotic trick." With great deliberation. "What. Where. I can't see anything. Oh God no. My eyes. Good grief, what on earth can it be."

Morden leaned over the goblets and switched them around. Then he quickly overturned the one in front of him and poured the wine onto the ground. He righted it and sat back. "I could have sworn I saw something. Oh well. No matter."

Marcus turned back with an air of long-suffering. He glared at Morden. "What's so funny."

Morden immediately stopped grinning. "Nothing. I'll tell you in a minute. First... let's drink. Me from my cup and you from yours." He waited for Marcus to drink first and the went through a heavy pantomime of draining his glass.

Marcus wiped his mouth. "You're dead." "You only think I guessed wrong!"

Morden laughed loudly and suddenly. "That's what's so funny. I switched the glasses when your back was turned. You fool!" Marcus smiled. It was a deadly kind of smile. Morden beamed. He was very cheerful. "You feel victim to one of the classic blunders. The most famous is never get involved in a Narn/Centauri war. But only slightly less well known is this: Never go in against a Shadow Agent when death and chaos is on the line!" He laughed again. And then, with a little hiccup, he fell forwards and was still. Marcus stepped up to him and checked his pulse.

With a slight huff of annoyance he glanced at the damp red patch of grass nearby Morden's goblet. "Pity." He stepped past Morden, planting a kick in his ribs as he did so. Carefully, he got rid of the rope binding Ivanova.

"Who are you?" she asked, getting to her feet.

"I am no one to be trifled with," Marcus said. "That is all you need know." He offered her his hand and she took it. They both stepped over Morden, kicking him again. I

vanova looked down. "To think... all that time it was your cup that was poisoned."

"They were both poisoned," Marcus said cheerfully. "I'm immune to binary poison... at least that type of binary poison. It's something to do with the Minbari medical system. All very complicated." He nodded to the path over the mountains. "Shall we?" Together, they set off at a run.

As soon as they were out of sight, Morden groaned.

"Cut!" Constellation said. "Rather good. Pity about the poison."

"Hey!" Morden sat up and scowled at her. "I'm beginning to feel under-appreciated here!"

"Awwww," the directors chorused. "Poor baby!"


	13. Evil Illegal Centauri Liquor Smuggling

Hi again. Just so you know, I'm not J.M.S or William Goldman. I don't own either B5 or the Princess Bride. I'm not a millionaire, and I hate black jellybeans. Good. All cleared up.

To our lovely reviewers:

Natters: Big prize. Shiny. Big shiny Cookies. With chocolate. :)

Celebwen Telcontar: Good to see you're still with us. Thanks for the tip.

C.A. LeSabre, and Laumae: Thanks for the reviews. You make us so happy.

Fondued Jicama: Um, well we are writing this from the script more than the book, but we will do our very best. Glad you are enjoying.

and romeoharvey: We are most pleased you are enjoying our story. Out of curiousity, my fellow writer and myself would like to know whether you are in love with him (Sythar) or me (Constellation)? JK :)

Keep reading, and pay attention. There will be a pop quiz at the end of the program. Or we will hand out sparkly sweet things. Or Bombs. I'm never actually sure...

XXXXXXXXXX

"All right," Montana flicked his black cape over one shoulder and grinned down at the cast. He was showing his fangs again. "Ready? Anyone got any complaints or objections?" The fangs grew longer. "No? Good. Roll 'Em!"

Constellation leant close to Sythar. "You know, the complaints have dropped wonderfully since we gave that line to Montana."

"No special effects," Sythar grumbled. "No shaking of the earth. Only stupid little fangs. Not fair. Tiny little fangs that could never hurt..." he stopped. Montana was looking at him.

In the sudden silence, Sinclair's voice rolled over the scene as Londo rode in front of the group up the mountain. "As the wonderful and magnificent Grand Emperor Humperdink of the Centauri Empire rode up the mountains, even his train were awed by his majestic pressence. Though he had not as yet ascended the throne, all could not help but marvel at the way royalty hung about him like a cloak. He was a prince, a king, a veritable G..."

"LINES!!!" The directors leaped to their feet. "Sinclair, you aren't even IN this scene!!"

"Londo's fault," Sinclair muttered. "Evil centauri. Evil centauri blackmail. Evil illegal centauri liquor smuggled into Minbar. Not my fault Minbari don't drink alcohol..." he trailed off.

Londo cleared his throat. "My friends, I do not have the faintest idea what he is talking about. Shall we?" He slipped off the horse and leant over a patch of sand. "I can't see anything."

"No, neither can I," Bester said gloomily. "I don't think we're even at the right place. I told you to take a left turn at that clump of bushes."  
"No, you didn't."

"Oh. Maybe I just _thought_ it at you."

"That little voice in my head? I thought that was my conscience. It has been a verrry long time since I was in the habit of listening to that." He winced. "Yes, that is louder. Thank you." He peered at the sand again. "No, wait. I see something. Someone has beaten a Vorlon here!"

"Define beaten," Bester said. "Punched, maimed, destroyed, beaten with words longer than one syllable? Torn apart by shadows?"

Londo turned and looked at him. "My frrriend. It is a merrre patch of sand. How am I supposed to know?"

"The Great Emperrorr Humperdink who has royalty hanging about him like a cloak?" Bester shrugged. "I thought you knew everything."

"Neverr mind." Londo walked back to his horse and re-mounted, turning it to face the path leading up the mountain. "Let's get going."

"Haven't you forgotten something? A certain Commander Buttercup?"  
Londo cringed. "Ssshhhhh!" He breathed deeply for a moment , looking over his shoulder. "There will be great suffering in Narn if she dies, of course. My precious brrride to be! Oh yes. Grrrreat sufferrrrring."

"Inflicted by you or by her?"

"Oh hush. You arre worrse than Vir."

They rode off, their arguing voices fading into the distance.

"Cut," Constellation said. "That was fun. Let's make them come back and shoot it again!"

"All right you two. Stop the talking. You're just about on..."

Ivanova grimaced at Montana. "Don't think that I won't come up there and pull those fangs of yours, Bud."

Montana bared his fangs in a hiss.

Marcus grinned. "These guys are kind of fun once you get to know them, aren't they?"

"What? The fangs? The explosions? The hordes of little gnomes?"

"Roll 'EM!"

They set off at a run, crossing the ridge of a hill and pelting down the other side until they reached a small clearing with a few boulders squatting around the edge. Marcus let go of Ivanova's hand and she dropped down onto a boulder and pretended to pant.

"Catch your breath," Marcus said.

Ivanova glared at him. "I'm fine."

"Oh? Great. Don't catch your breath. I won't either. We can have a nice little contest as to who can go more blue in the face."

She snorted. "If you'll release me (stupid unnecessary panting) whatever you ask for ransom (yet more panting) you'll get it in the neck, I promise you."

"Fantastic." Marcus thought for a moment. "You know, I've always wanted a really nice pair of opera glasses, ones with black around the edges. If you could get me one of those, and a few carrot cakes, we'd be square."

"What?"

He grinned at her. "And what is that worth, the promise of a woman? You are very beautiful, Highness."

"Marcus, you're making me forget my lines."

"All the better to talk nonsense to you, Highness."

"Just shut up... for now. I was giving you a tiny little inch of a chance. No matter where you take me, there's no greater killer than me. I will get you. One night when you're sleeping I will take your life. I could fight a Vorlon and a Shadow on a cloudy day. I can kill you." Her smile grew feral.

"You know..." Marcus leaned in and kissed her on her nose. "You're cute when you're psychotic."

"Miss Ivanova?" Constellation said. "Your lines?"

"Oh. Yes." Ivanova scowled to hide the fact that she was blushing. "Then there is Emperor Humperdink! He can track even the most horrific and terrible spider in a large kitchen. He will not fail."

Both she and Marcus looked at each other, and coughed loudly.

"You think your ahem dearest love ahem will save you?" Marcus asked with a moderately straight face.

"I _never ever in a thousand years_ said he was my dearest love!!" Ivanova shouted. "Good grief!"

"You admit to me that you do not love this munificent ruler?"

Ivanova smiled again. "Oh he knows I don't love him. At least... he'd better."

"Are not capable of love, is what you mean."

There was a short silence as Marcus and Ivanova looked at each other intently. Then Ivanova dropped her eyes.

"I have loved," she said softly. "I have."

He nodded and leant forwards, his breath warming her cheek. "I know."

It was not certain who hugged who first, but his arms were around her and her arms were around him. Then he took her hand again and they walked on up the hill. Neither spoke. They didn't need to.

"Uh..." Montana said in a half whisper. "That wasn't quite.."

"Hush!" Constellation watched the pair disappear. "You'll spoil the moment."


	14. For I am a Pirate KIINNGG!

Hello, everybody. My deepest gratitude to all our reviewers. You are the main driving force behind this story.

QteCuttlfish - Wow. What a lovely big bunch of reviews. (Kinda like flowers, just they don't wilt) Thank you. Have a chocolate trophy. We are glad to have you with us.

Right, we've got a little chalenge for you this time. As one of the reviewers requested an update on the famous (or infamous) extra scene in the book, we will offer this as the prize if enough of you answer the question right.

Here's the challenge: In this update there are two numbered parts. One is written by me (your regular author. Call me B) and the other is written by a guest author (call him L). If you can guess which is which, we will add a piece on William Goldman's extra scene. If not, no worries. We'll just continue with the script as normal. Cheers. And have fun, this should not be taken in any spirit except a light-hearted one.

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1: "Ok everybody," said Constellation grimly, putting on her sunglasses. "Let's get this scene done. Everyone ready? Emperor Humperdinck... where are you?"

"I am here," came the muffled voice of Londo from some bushes close to the brink of the hill. "These quadrupedic pack animals that you use on Earth are astonishingly unintelligent, yes? They are extremely undisciplined – I have been kicking this one persuasively for some minutes and it still refuses to progress up the hill."

Constellation sighed, rubbing her eyes. "Marcus... Would you be so kind as to give him a hand?"

Bowing elegantly, Marcus ran off into the shrubbery.

There were rustling noises, and vague shouts of "No! Not up that way! You stupid Ranger..." The directors glanced at each other. A few seconds later, Marcus emerged from the bushes, leading a somewhat battered Londo on his horse.

"Ok then," Constellation began. "Everyone ready? Londo, this scene calls for you to be kneeling down beside the dead body of Mr Mor... Vizzini. Where is he, anyway?"

Londo dismounted and looked down at the picnic. "Mr Morden!" he bellowed.

There was a pause, and Morden appeared, picking grass blades off his trousers. He smiled, the smile wearing a little bit thin about the edges. "What do you want?"

"You must come over here and pretend to be dead." Londo chuckled under his breath. "This should be the easiest acting part of your careerrr, yes?"  
Mr Bester emerged from the trees and rode up beside the picnic table. "I am here," he said in a reluctant voice.

Morden sauntered over and lay down on the ground, doing a passable imitation of a corpse. Londo leaned over him and rubbed his hands.

"Excuse me, Mr Mollari..." said Constellation.

"Yes?"

"Try not to enjoy this scene too much, hm? Cameras ready? Right... Roll 'em!"

Londo knelt down carefully by the dead body and picked up the empty tube of poison. He studied it carefully, then sniffed. "Hm. Binary Poison. I'd bet my life on it. Something you know a great deal about, yes, Mr Morden?" He stood up and kicked Morden severely in the ribs, which drew a squeak from the corpse. Londo began feeling at his side for something that wasn't there.

"Londo," Constellation began. "Your kutari and everything else is in storage back at the studio. Sorry, but could you please kill Mr Morden _after _the scene is finished?"

"I am only trying to help him get into character, hm?" Londo explained, preventing Morden from crawling away with a foot planted on his back.

Constellation closed her eyes. "We can't have blood... He was supposed to be _poisoned_."

"Oh, very well." Londo offered the tube to Bester, who took it gingerly with his thumb and forefinger. Peering at the surrounding grass, Londo pointed. "And there..." he muttered: "somewhere... are the Princess's footprints. She is alive... or was an hour ago. I am overflowing with happiness." He drew himself up and cast a vengeful look around the field. "If she is dead when I find her, I shall be verrrrry..."

"Relieved?" Bester put in.

"Stop reading my mind!" Londo spluttered. "This is acting. It is somewhat like lying except humans pay to see it. You are meant to read from the script, not my thoughts!"

Bester shut his mouth, and raised an eyebrow invitingly.

Londo cleared his throat. "I shall be verrrrry displeased." Giving Morden a parting kick, he reached for the pommel of his horse's saddle and scrambled up onto its back. "I shall feel verrrry much like beheading several people and displaying their heads on pikes for all my empire to see."

They rode away from the picnic table, leaving Morden to stagger away dizzily.

"Cut!" Montana yelled. "Thank goodness Londo and Morden didn't actually have to have dialogue with each other."

Constellation pouted and petted her favorite gnome on the head. "But Morden didn't _die_."

"He's got plenty of time for that later in the season."

2: "Lovebirds! You ready, or do I have to give Sythar the megaphone?" Constellation pressed her fingers to her temples and moaned. This was not worth three thousand a week. It wasn't worth three thousand a _day_.

Ivanova glared. She kept on glaring. Slowly, the paint began to peel off Constellation's chair. In a voice like the threat of thunder and lightning, Ivanova spoke, "Do not call me a lovebird. Ever. Remember this. Repeat it to yourself. Ivanova is not a lovebird. Ivanova is god. I will not make stupid comments about Ivanova and Marcus again, and I will retain all my organs intact and inside my body."

Constellation squeaked, and shrank back in her chair.

"Are you ready, then?" Montana asked . "...Ma'am?"  
"Oh all right." She rose from the grass and brushed herself off. "Come on, Marcus."

He grinned, and grabbed her hand and they ran. They ran along the bridge of a mountain, dodging over smaller rocks and skidding pebbles down the mind-defying drop. Finally Marcus gently swung Ivanova onto a patch of soft grass at the edge of a sheer ravine and they paused, panting lightly.

"Rest, Highness," Marcus said cheerfully.

"I know who you are..."

"Ooo, lovely." He crouched down beside her and placed his chin in his hands. "Who am I then? Go one, tell me. I bet I can guess in under three tries."

Ivanova scowled at him as best she could. It never seemed to work with Marcus. That was one of the reasons he was so darned annoying. He always listened to her, but he _enjoyed_ it too much. "Your cruelty reveals everything."

"Cruelty!" He staggered, reeling backwards with surprising grace. "Highness! I just said you could rest! Does that sound like the order of a cruel man? Oh." He frowned. "I see. You think I'm President Luchenko."

There was a long pause. The directors tried desperately not to chuckle. Ivanova kept a straight face. "You," she said finally, in the voice of someone who will finish their sentence no matter what disasters may occur before it should end. "Are the _Dread_ Pirate Roberts. Admit it now, and I may yet let you live."

Marcus bowed elegantly. "My lady." He cleared his throat, and gave a short cough. Then he flung out his arms. "For I am a Pirate KIIIINNNG!" He sang loudly. "And it is, it is a glorious thing to be a Pirate..."

"Marcus!"

He stopped, and looked enough like a wounded puppy that she felt guilty. "What?"

"If we keep wasting time, we'll never get back to the station. And that means," she managed to smile. "That we will not be spending any time together... alone."

"Very well," his eyes twinkled. "I admit my name with pride and ask gallantly what I can do to make you life easier."

"You can die slowly, shredded into a million chunks of bleeding flesh."

"Hardly complimentary." Marcus managed not to look pained. "Why loose you inexorable hatred on me?"

Ivanova sighed. "You are making me love you."

His face softened. "It is possible. I make a lot of people love me."

"I believe we have now strayed away from the basic underlying roots of the story, people!" Montana said loudly. "Could you two _try_ to act like you hate each other for a few brief moments?" He sighed, and they could hear him muttering under his breath, "First they dislike each other when they're meant to be falling in love. Now they decide they like each other! I swear they do it to spite us!"

"I think we're annoying him," Marcus whispered.

Ivanova nodded, and grinned. "Oh, yes."

"Anyway. Who was this love of yours? Another Emperrrorrrr, like this one? Big hair, lots of 'r's, and a penchant for destroying planets?"

"No." Ivanova gave him a level, challenging look. "A ranger. Poor. A bit stupid and annoying. With eyes like hyperspace, so deep that you can't find your way back." She couldn't help herself. She actually sighed. And then went red. Before he could interrupt, she went on quickly. "On the high seas, your vessel attacked. And the Dread Pirate Roberts never takes prisoners."

Marcus looked at her, a dopey adoring smile on his face. "Mmm? Oh. Yes. Prisoners. Right. You see, I can't afford to make exceptions. If anyone thought I was going soft, my crew would begin to disobey my orders, and then I'd have to beat them up with a plank of four-by-two. Hate doing that. Really."

Ivanova leaned forwards, her eyes glinting. "You mock my pain!"

"Life _is_ pain, Highness. Believe me." His face went completely serious. "Anyone who says differently, is trying to use you to assist his associates in taking over the galaxy with the forces of chaos. But, I remember this Ranger of yours, I think. This would have been, what, two or three days ago?"

"Five years."

"Oh. Right. Felt shorter, is all. Does it bother you to hear the gruesome details about his death? I would caution you, the tale is not for the faint-hearted, people with heart-disease, or children under the age of 12... except Pakh'mara. They're fine. Can hear anything, they can. Stomachs like a Vorlon's brain... yes?"

"Marcus." Ivanova shook her head to clear it. "Please."

"Right. He died well, that should make you happy. He said, "Please. Please, I need to live." I naturally, asked him why, and he looked at me with those 'hyperspace' eyes of his, and said... "My True Love. She'll kill you." Then he spoke of a lady with surpassing beauty and fearlessness. I can but assume that he meant you. You really should bless me for killing him before he found out what you really are."

Ivanova peered at him. "And what am I?"

"Fearsome, not fearless." Marcus shook his head, clicking his tongue. "Boy should have learnt to use the right word. Your fearlessness was all he talked about, enduring as a White Star. Now, tell me truly. When you found out that he was dead, did you get engaged to the Grrrreeat Emperrror that hour, or did you wait a whole week out of respect for the dead?" He leaned closer. "And have you ever... you know... kissed him? Because that would be slightly less disgusting than you kissing one of Cartagia's pet heads."

"You mocked me once," Ivanova got slowly to her feet. "Never do it again. I _died_ that day."

They stood for a moment, looking at each other. Down below Londo and Bester cantered across the hills, shouting things at each other and their horses. Londo kept on falling off.

Marcus turned his head. "Here you go, I'm getting conveniently distracted. Oh, that's a long way down."

Ivanova walked to his side and looked. After a moment she drew back. "I can't do it."

"Yes you can. It's easy."

"No, I can't. What if you get hurt?"

"Well," Marcus looked around at her and smiled. "You said it yourself. If we don't finish the scene, we don't get back to Babylon Five. And I never get to spend time with you in private. So..." Before she could stop him, he dashed to the edge and jumped. As he tumbled down the bumpy cliff, she could hear his voice drifting back up to her. "Nuzen... felani...enaliz... medrawn."

Ivanova stood still for a long second. "Oh, my stupid Marcus, what have you done?" Then, without taking time to think, she jumped too. They tumbled for what felt like forever, over and over, until they hit with a smash at the bottom and were still.


	15. Kill the fat one!

Hello again. Sorry about the long wait. For the record, we minor and insignificant peasants who are not worthy to look upon the faces of the glorious creators of Babylon 5 and Princess Bride do not own any rights whatsoever.

As to the little challenge we offered last time, this is the answer: L was 1, B was 2. 2-3 people got it right, so you can look forwards to a little rant about S Morgenstern and William Goldman and the extra scene in our next update. For those people who are wondering when we're going to get around to the fireswamp, that comes later in the script. Please be paitient. We will get there, I promise...

Enjoy!

XXXXXXX

"Londo?" Constellation sounded tired, her head in her hands. "Are you on the horse?"

"No!"

"Nearly on the horse?"

"These animals are beyond bearrring! I wish you would let me run them through with my..."

Montana raised a hand, and let out a long sigh. "Bester, please."

The psi-cop glanced up at the directors, and pulled a face. "Must I? This is more amusing than the time I brain-washed Garibaldi into thinking he was the reincarnation of Laura Ingalls Wilder."

There was a pause, in which the Directors tried to get rid of the mental images in case Garibaldi could hear their thoughts, and Londo swore at his horse.

"PLEASE!" Montana repeated.

"Oh, very well." Bester slid elegantly off his horse and strode over to where Londo was lying. He stepped over the irate Centauri and took the bridle of the horse in one hand, turning its head until he was looking into its eyes. "Please, I know you have a terrible job. No, really, I understand. I have to act with him; I can't imagine what pain you go through. But the sooner you let him on your back, the quicker we can all get out of this."

The horse shook its head and stomped out heavily where Londo had just put his foot.

"Stupid, Evil CRRREATURRRE!!" Londo spat, hopping around madly.

Bester smiled at the horse. "I like you."

"Bester..." Sythar whispered, causing the earth to shift on its axis. "I'm waiting."

"Ah. Yes." Bester shook a finger at the horse, unconvincingly. "Bad horse. Naughty animal. Don't do it again." He stepped away and walked back to his own steed. "Happy? You can mount now, Londo. I managed to convince the horse that it was better to let you live for now."

"Thank you so much." Londo hopped to the horse's side and clambered on. "The Imperial Courrrt will showerrrr you and yourr descendants with prrraise and adorrration for ten generations. Rrreally."

Bester raised an eyebrow. "I can't tell you how much that means to me."

"All ready?" Constellation downed three aspirin and the rest of her Harvey Wallbanger. "Fine. Let's get going."

Bester kneed his horse into a trot, letting Londo follow, and they rounded the corner and rode onto a green wedge of ground stretched above the wicked cliffs. Londo tried to rein in, but the horse kept on moving towards the edge.

"Oh dear," Bester said in an interested voice. "It's contemplating suicide." He paused, and rubbed his chin. "Then again, it could just want to buck you over the edge..."

"Stop! Horse-crreaturre! In the name of the Glorious Centauri Republic, I order you to halt!!!" The edge grew nearer. "PLEASE!!!" Bester kneed his horse a few steps forwards. "Sugar."

Londo's horse came to a sudden and complete stop. Londo fell off onto the grass. Very slowly, he got to his feet, one hand going to his side. "That is the end." He produced a long knife. "I will show you once and forr all who is the Emperrorr herre, yes?"

Constellation grabbed for her head. "Oh good grief, how did that get past the security check?"  
Montana shrugged. "He said it was for slicing his spoo."

Londo edged forwards, circling around the horse in a defensive crouch. The knife flickered evilly in the sunlight. Sooner or later, the horse was going to die.

"Mollari! STOP!" Sythar bellowed. In the distance, a chorus of female voices began shouting. "Save the horse! Save the horse! Let the horse kill the fat one! Save the horse! Horses forever!!!"  
Londo growled, froth foaming at the corners of his mouth. "No! You can only do so much to a Centaurrri!"

The chanting grew louder and louder. "Horses! Horses! Horses!..."

With a flick of his wrist, Montana pushed a big red button on the side of his chair. There was a bright flash, and a trapdoor opened up beneath Londo's feet. With a loud cry, Londo disappeared. The two horses and Bester edged away from the spot where the trapdoor still swung crazily. T

he chanting faded into distant, hysterical cheers, and then there was silence.

After a moment, Montana whispered, "Oh for Gosh's sake... Roll 'em!"

"What? But..." Bester broke off as the fanged director snapped a clapper board in his direction. "Oh, very well." He stalked over to the hole in the ground and peered down into it. "What is that, sire? They have disappeared? Ah yes, he must have seen us closing in, right? And that would account for his panicking in error? You are such a genius, your excellency."

There was a pause, and the distinct sound of Centauri cursing drifted up from out of the hole. "Yes, yes, Your Majesty. I quite understand." Bester beamed in a approving manner. "Unless you are wrong, and of course, you are never wrong, they are headed into the fire swamp! You are a truly wonderful tracker, Your Excellency. I admire your deductive powers."

His smile grew wider as the cursing increased in volume. "Of course, we must go there now. What? I can't quite hear you, your magnificence. Oh, you say you'll wait here? How sad. Trust me, my great Emperor. I will save your princess..." he paused, and then added, "Yes?"

With a flourish of his cape, he strode back to his horse and mounted, riding quickly away from the cliff.

"Cut!" Montana looked at Constellation. "Now, anyone have a straitjacket?"


	16. World saving violence! I can do that

Hello again. As we said in our profile, our humblest and most abject apologies for the absence of updating. In a peace offering, we've added a little piece on William Goldman's little 'Morgenstern didn't write the reconcilliation scene, but if you write to me I'll send mine to you" joke.

We don't own Babylon Five or William Goldman or The Princess Bride. Enjoy!

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"Ready?" Constellation ignored the rebellious muttering and accepted a large cool glass of beer from one of her tiny minions. "Oh, stop complaining. It'll be over in a minute. Besides, your costumes are really part of the prize."

"What prize?" David asked sulkily.

"Never you mind," Constellation said. "Roll 'em!"

David and Sinclair stared at each other for a long moment. They were both dressed in tuxedos, brilliant red carnations sparkling in their buttonholes. Sinclair held a cane, and wore a top hat, while David was struggling with a cap that didn't seem to want to fit. In mutual embarrassment, they exchanged a look that said you-don't-laugh-at-me-I-won't-laugh-at-you.

David gave a slight nod. Sinclair returned it, and then turned to face the invisible audience, a bright and brilliant smile on his face. "Gooood evening Ladies and Gents. Welcome to 'Who Told The Biggest Whopper In Their Novel'. I am Jeffrey Sinclair, and this is my lovely young... I mean handsome young assistant David Sheridan. Firstly," his smile grew even more brilliant as he walked over and put a hand on David's shoulder. "Let me assure you that all of our contenders pass through a rigorous qualifying process. They must have deceived at least five hundred people to make it onto our short lists, and the more extravagant and over-the-top the fib, the better! Today we bring to you a very special case. William Goldman's Princess Bride!"

David tried not to shrug off Sinclair's arm. "Why, Jeffrey, what did this William Goldman do?"

"I'll tell you, David!" Sinclair paused, and squinted up at the directors. "Hey, shouldn't I have some gorgeously beautiful, scantily dressed girl helping me with this? I'm pretty sure I remember this set-up from a history lesson on twenty-first century game-shows..."

"Just do it, Sinclair."Montana said.

"Oh very well." Sinclair beamed at David. "When writing his loverly novel, William Goldman created a completely fictional 'reality' for himself. He passed off the book as the literary work of one S. Morgenstern, telling all his readers that he was merely abridging this lengthy tome for future generations. He also conjured up a fictitious psychiatrist wife and son to add some realism to his tale!"

"Oh my!" David clasped his hands and did his best to flutter his eyelashes. "What else did he do, Jeffy?"

"Jeffy??" Sinclair's glare singed the hair on David's head.

"Just getting into the part... Jeffy."

Sinclair silently promised death and destruction, while managing to keep a bright smile on his face. The result was more than a little frightening. "Oh, he said that he was read the story while a child suffering from pneumonia. This, of course, was humanly impossible as he was the one who wrote the book in the first place." Sinclair's voice rose in indignation. "Why in Valen's name pretend that someone read you your own book???"

"Did you just swear by yourself?" David asked curiously.

"We don't talk about that." Sinclair blinked. "Where was I? Ohhhh yes. And do you know what else he did, Davie?"  
David spluttered. "NO. What.?"

"He said that Morgenstern didn't write the full reconciliation scene. He said that he wrote it himself but couldn't put it in the novel for legal reasons. _He _said that the readers could write in and request the extra scene to be sent to them. And. Do. You. Know. What. He. Did. Then?" Sinclair had grabbed at David's collar and was glowering down at him. The full force of the question mark ricocheted off David's chest and slapped him in the cheek.

"No?"

"He sent them a letter saying due to COMPLETELY fiction legal troubles with the owners of the S Morgenstern estate, he couldn't send it to them! And he's been saying it for years! He _could_ send them their extra scene, but he doesn't just to keep up the pretense of a joke that isn't even FUNNY!"

David tried to disentangle Sinclair's hands from his collar. "Um, Jeffrey? Commander, sir? I can't breathe."

"And then he...!" Sinclair stopped. A strange look came over his face and he began gasping for breath. He dropped the boy and bent over, coughing loudly. David patted him on the back. "Air..." Sinclair wheezed.

David hit him on the back harder. "Don't worry. If you were really choking to death, you wouldn't be able to talk. That's what my dad always says."

Something black and small popped out of Sinclair's throat and whizzed across the scene. Sinclair struggled for air, holding onto his chest. "And I suppose he's had ample opportunity to test this theory, right?"  
"You never know with dad." David helped him to straighten up, and they both turned to glare at the hysterical directors. "Are we quite finished?"  
"Yes." Sinclair said, rather weakly. "Now that I've dressed up in a ridiculous monkey-suit and nearly swallowed the biggest bug I've ever seen in my life, can we go?"

There was a giggle-filled pause, and then Montana nodded. "Yes. Cut. Cut."

Sinclair and David walked off together, managing to maintain quite a dignified silence, even with the laughter that followed them.

"Is the make-up finished?" Montana bared his long fangs at the make-up assistant, and was more than a little disappointed when she did no more than give them a professionally interested glance.

"Not quite. They don't like sitting still."

"Is that a director?" Ivanova's voice floated out of the make-up tent. "Hey! Why do we need all this stupid make-up on?"

"You nearly fell to your death."

"But we didn't." Ivanova said. "And neither did the characters. A bit of soppy dialog, and then they run off, happy as ever. Why pretend that we're hurt, when we're obviously not even scratched. And you'd better have a damn good reason, buster. I'm getting all itchy with this stuff they're plastering on my face, and itchiness makes me homicidal!"

Montana winced. "My dear Princess Buttercup. We simply _must_ have some gratuitous violence for the modern audience. You fall down a cliff, and what they really want to see is, not whether or not you've survived, but how much you're bleeding. We do care about our ratings, you know."

There was a slight pause, and then Marcus said quietly, "Are you sure? I always leave the room when that happens."

Ivanova sighed very loudly. "I can't believe you just said that to him."

"Why not? I'm a violent ranger, and I _have_ to enjoy gruesome violence on a regular basis? That was never in the contract! They spouted a lot of stuff about spiritual symmetry and making sure you could feel the circle of the universe, but nothing about blood and gore watching."

Ivanova muttered something that sounded like "stuck between a fanged-psychopath and a sensitive ranger. Great. Heaven help us if the world needs saving."

"Ah. World saving violence. Yes, I can do _that_. That and friend-saving-violence, and information-gathering-violence. Or the old-fashioned I'm-bloody-angry-and-I-want-to-hit-something-until-it-stops-moving-violence. Give me a bunch of guys in a bar and a four-by-two any day."

Montana shook his head and turned to go. "Whenever you're ready, then."

About half-an-hour later, Ivanova and Marcus were lying on the grass at the bottom of the cliff, staring up at the sky. They were both liberally covered in ghastly bruises and cuts. Ivanova's dress was torn, and Marcus had lost his mask.

"Action!" Sythar shouted.

Marcus slowly levered himself up and crawled towards Ivanova. "Are you all right? Uh – are you conscious?"

"My eyes are open, aren't they?"

"Yes, but there's a lot of blood, so it's a bit hard to tell. Can you move at all? Cos it doesn't look like you should..."

Ivanova grabbed his arm and slapped her free hand over his mouth. "Move? You're alive, and talking far too much already. If you want, I can fly."

Marcus twinkled at her, and began making extravagant hand gestures. He pointed towards himself, and then at his covered mouth, made a walking motion with one hand and then pointed towards her and clasped his hands over his heart. He raised his eyebrows and shrugged a wide questioning motion, before doing the whole pointing, heart clasping rigmarole again.

Ivanova blinked. "What are you doing?"

"Mmf mfff phwa mmmmff" Marcus mumbled into her palm, gesticulating wildly. "Mmmmmf!"

She took her hand away.

"I said, I'm trying to mime my lines to you. Is it working?"  
"No." Ivanova managed not to smile. At all. Even a little bit.

"Pity. Seemed a good idea at the time." He shrugged. "Oh well. I told you I would come for you. Why didn't you wait for me?"  
She pursed her lips. "Well... you were dead."

"I've been dead before. Sheridan came back from the dead. Why does everyone immediately jump to the conclusion that death is the big final end? I mean to say, everyone's popping back and forth from the 'undiscovered country' at such a rate, that you'd have thought there would be a frequent flier system by now." Marcus threw his arms in the air and collapsed on the grass beside her. "Whoever wrote this obviously had no idea about the..." he paused for breath and Ivanova grabbed her chance.

"I will never doubt again," she said loudly.

Marcus looked at her for a second. "There will never be a need." He leant in towards her. She moved her head back slightly. Both of them pursed their lips...

"Oh no. No, please!" David's voice cut between them more effectively than a PPG shot.

"DAVIIID!" both Ivanova and Marcus glared in his direction.

"When this is over," Ivanova added. "John is going to have to get himself a new son!"

While she was distracted, Marcus slowly drew his finger across his throat, making a horrible grimace in David's direction, before leaning in and kissing Ivanova quickly.

"Cut," Sythar whispered. Romantic music from two-hundred symphonic orchestras filled the air as everyone tip-toed quietly away, leaving Ivanova and Marcus alone. Finally.


	17. Yeah, yeah, yeah uh yeah

Welcome back! (Or should you be saying that to us? I'm not sure.) Your eyes do not deceive you. It is an update. In fact, it is TWO updates (or will be. Very soon. Honest). We felt guilty.

Ah. We're over it.

Disclaimer: We, the authors of this humorous and disrespectful parody, do hereby state that we do not own the rights to Babylon Five or The Princess Bride.

XXXXXXXXXXxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Sinclair sat down on the bed and sighed. He was honestly getting sick of the big gooey eyes of the fluffy sheep on the duvet. They seemed to be ... watching him. Always. He was also getting tired of trying to talk to a sweater stuffed with bedclothes.

"David? They have gone, you know. You can come out from under the bed now."

"No!" There was a scuffling noise. "I don't want to be disembowled, hung, and castrated! You want to risk underestimating Her, you go ahead and do it." A tousled, cobweb-covered head popped out briefly. "I'll come to your funeral."

"We," Jeffrey said slowly. "Are going to be on in ten minutes. Unless you really want to hear what I sound like when I'm trying to mime a ten-year-old boy, you had better get ready!"

Silence.

"I'll do all your lines in Minbari..."

More silence.

"While your mother chants the Nafak'Cha..."

David wriggled out and glared at the Commander. "You wouldn't."

"Please. Feel free to try me."

"You're sick." David coughed, and tried to brush cobwebs from his hair as he climbed gingerly on top of the bed. With a nervous glance at the door, he shoved his dummy out of the way and lay down.

Sinclair smiled. It was the same smile that he used to scare the bejeebus out of the new ranger recruits. It was perfected to an art form. "Oh no. You're the one who's sick. It's in the script."

"Places!" Constellation croaked. "All ready?"

David nodded sulkily. "Yeah, yeah. Let's get this done before I'm shot."

"You won't be shot," Montana said. "Not yet, anyway. The film isn't finished yet. Action!"

Sinclair grabbed a pair of spectacles and put them on, peering over the top at David. "What is it? What's the matter?"  
"They're going to kill me!" David said. "Why am I the one who always has to interrupt them kissing? It's not fair! Let's just skip it all together and then they can do what they like, okay?"  
"Someday," Sinclair said. "You may not mind so much."

"Sure, I won't mind. I'll be dead!"

"You're sick with the flu, not anything terminal." Jeffrey picked up the book and leafed through it. "Let's just skip on to the Fire Swamp, eh? I'll humour you."

"Can't you humour me while I'm under the bed?"

"Shut up." Sinclair's smile was getting very thin. "So. Where were we? Yeah, yeah. Yeah Yeah Yeah Yeah... uh... yeah... uh... "

"The firesawmp?" David asked helpfully.

"Yeah." Sinclair repeated weakly, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead. "The fireswamp. Yeah." Carefully, he flipped through the book in desperate search of his next line. "It's uh, a swamp. And there's uh, fire in it. I think. Unless its a metaphorical name, of course. Uh... a metaphor is when..."

David snatched the book out of his hands. "Oh, for goodness sake! Westley and Buttercup raced along the ravine floor. There. See? Not so hard, was it?"

"You want to read the story? You read the story!"

"Fine, I will!"

"Fine!"

Sinclair and David glared at each other grimly.

"And, that would be a cut." Montana peered at the script. "Hmm. I think, maybe - just maybe, people will recognise this as something that looks a little like that book by the Goldman fellow. If we're very lucky."

"Enough with the sarcasm, Fang-face," Sinclair snapped. "I'm getting plenty of attitude from Come-back-from-the-dead Junior here."

"Are you insulting my dad?" David grabbed his pillow threateningly.

Sinclair found another pillow conveniently next to his chair. "What if I am?"

As feathers clouded the scene for the benefit of the ratings, Montana and Constellation walked softly away. Sometimes, even powerful directors can't win.


	18. No Peeking! Nobody likes a cheater!

See! Here you go. A second update. We aren't such bad sorts after all.

We don't own Babylon Five or The Princess Bride. I own a small headache and a craving for something alcoholic. My comrades own facial hair. You have been warned.

We have decided to split the fire swamp into two parts because it is long and I own (as previously stated) a small headache of the purple variety. Enjoy

XXXXxxxxxx

Two horses stood at the edge of the cliff, looking down with the kind of fascinated expression that one would expect from a human. Bester perched easily on the back of one of the horses, while Londo stood about a foot away from the other and glared at it.

"Can't you control that beast for any longer than a few seconds?" Londo asked.

Bester smiled at the horse. "Oh no. I can't promise anything, Molari. The business of manipulating lower life-forms is oddly tricky."

Londo took a step towards the horse, and then scuttled backwards as it turned its head and grinned at him. "Oh really?"

"Yes. So you can feel quite safe."

"Ha hah hah." Londo peered down over the cliff. "You arre quite the comdian, yes?" He shaded his eyes for a moment. "Grreat Makerr, will they neverr come up forr air?"

Bester grimaced. To be honest, the scene below them was turning his stomach. "I am having enough trouble keeping their thoughts out of my head, thank you. I do not need you projecting mental images."

They lapsed into silence again. For some strange reason, the directors were not calling everyone to order. In fact, they appeared to be relaxing in their lounge chairs and drinking martinis while Bester and Londo waited for the scene to begin. It wasn't really fair. Especially as Montana and Constellation kept on pointing at them and snickering.

Finally, Londo snapped. "We're just WAITING while they RRRRUN AWAY into the FIRRRRE SWAMP!" He boomed. "It is SUCH a PITY that we cannot POSSIBLY catch them in time, YES??"

The pair down below broke the record-breakingly long kiss and looked up. Marcus murmured something to Ivanova and they waved cheerily.

"Oh, yes," Bester said loudly, turning to Londo. "SUCH a pity. After all, who knows WHAT we would do if we COULD catch them??"

"Pain." Londo glanced at the horse. And then at the patch of ground he had been introduced forefully to three or four times in the last ten minutes. "Lots of pain."

Both men smiled.

Down below, Marcus and Ivanova shared a glance. Marcus shrugged.

"We could stay here and see how long it takes before they finally resort to physical violence..." he offered.

"Yes," Ivanova said. "But then again, I'm getting sunburnt. Let's get moving. We can... talk... later."

Marcus beamed a thousand-watt smile at her, and got up. He leaned back and surveyed the men on the clifftop. "You have to close your eyes and count to a hundred!"

They could see Bester and Molari exchange a puzzled look.

"What?" Bester called back down.

"No peeking!" Marcus shouted. "Nobody likes a cheater!" Then he turned and offered his arm to Ivanova. "Shall we?"

"Lets." She got up and they nodded to the directors. "Ready."

Constellation lowered her sunglasses. "Zhat sho? Fantasticalic. Rooollll 'em."

"Acshion," Montana said sagely, bobbing his head up and down. "All fifty-eleven of you."

Marcus made a show of looking up at Molari. "Hah! Your rotten swine pig stinking idiotic moron of a emperor fiance is too late. A few more steps and we'll be safe in the Fire Swamp." He paused, glanced at the smoke pouring out of the forest in front of them and frowned. "Safe? In a Fire Swamp? Isn't that an oxymoron?"

"You are pretending everything will be all right, and I am pretending to believe you." Ivanova glanced at her script. "Ooops. No, I'm not. We'll never survive."

"Nonsense!" Marcus tugged her towards the swamp. "People said that about Za-ha-dum too, and look what happened there."

They ran off into the swamp-like forest. It was black and charred and messy, long hissing vines and curling snakes falling from every second branch, and pools of rancid water slurping out of the ground when least expected. The trees were tall and ghastly looking, huge redened scars cut into the bark and ginourmous leaves twitching like living things and blocking out the sunlight.

Ivanova picked her way over the ground, scowling at her long trailing skirt and trying to look panicked. Marcus whistled softly, swinging his staff back and forth and skipping every now and again. It was very strange to see a grown man in black skip.

"Not too bad," Marcus said cheerfully. "I'm not saying I want to mount an archaelogical expidition here or anything, but the aura is quite lovely."

Ivanova tugged her skirt away from a brach and swore. "I'm going to kill the costume department."

"Don't you mean the costume designer?" Marcus caught the expression on her face. "Oh. Yes. The department. Of course."

There was a sudden sulphurous popping noise, and a huge spurt of fire came whooshing out of the ground. Ivanova and Marcus jumped to the side quickly, but Ivanova's dress had been soaked in petrol before the scene started, so it burst into flames. In a flash, Marcus shoved her to the ground and pressed the flames out.

He grunted. "Well now, my little homicidal manic, that was an adventure, wasn't it?"

" You're crushing me." Ivanova pushed herself off the ground and peered at the charred wreck that was somehow still haning together. "Make that the whole make-up, costume and special effects departments. Everybody dies."

Marcus struggled to his feet with a wince. "You hurt?"

She shook her head. "No. You?"

"No."

"You're lying." Ivanova turned to survey him with more than a hint of anxiety in her eyes. "Burnt? Badly?"

"No, no... " Marcus pulled off the flesh-coloured asbestos gloves he had been wearing. "A little singed around my eyebrow area, but apart from that, I am still in perfect working order."

There was a second popping noise. This time, however, the fire was further away from them. Ivanova sent it a whithering glare.

"Shut up!"

It subsided. After an embarrassed pause, Ivanova cleared her throat and offered Marcus her arm.

"Come on. Oh... and, Marcus?"

"Yes?"

"Thanks."

"You're welcome."

They continued walking. The swamp maintained a careful silence as they clambered their way over logs and around murky puddles of water. Every now and again the ground gave an awkward hiccup, but didn't dare go any further.

Marcus raised an eyebrow. "I have a feeling I might as well skip the next line. Let's just move on to me being a Pirate King again, shall we?"

"If you burst into song, I'll push you into the swamp and run away with Bester."

He pursed his lips. "Careful. I may call your bluff. And then you'd have to be Bester's fifty-second mistress of the year. With all the creepy glove-wearing, Bester-saluting, freedom-repressing fun that such a position brings. He's quite the romantic. Charming dinners by candlelight while an orchestra of minions torture renegades for information in the background. He feasts on endangered species and breaks an antique glass after every meal. Such a sophisticate..." he paused, pulled out his script and leafed through it. "Hey! Who wrote this script?"

"We were tryin'..." Constellation slurred happily. "To build Rugen up ash zhe bad guy."

"I told you we should have waited until we were shober," Sythar added.

Ivanova caught the wicked glint that entered Marcus's eyes. She knew that gleam. It meant trouble. "Marcus..."

"Hey, anyone can build Bester up as the bad guy!" He struck a debonair pose. "When his dinner is even one second late, he presses a button and the waiter goes up in flames. He makes his children go to school in psy-cop uniforms, and gives them Barney the Dinosaur lunchboxes to take along. His living room is a museum of mumified tax-collectors. Oh, and he kicks his dog. A bad man." He smiled at Ivanova. She glared back. "Moooving right along. This will all soon be but a happy scorched memory because Robert's White Star is floating at the far end. And I, as you know, am Roberts."

Ivanova unclenched her teeth slightly and gave him a grim smile. "How is that possible? Roberts has been marauding for twenty years, and you can't be more than," she paused and squinted at him. "Oh, thirty years old."

"I am, myself, often surprised at life's little inconsistancies. Look at Season Five, after all..."

Suddenly there was another popping noise. Marcus picked up Ivanova and moved her absently out of the way. "Never mind. You see, what I told you before about saying 'please' was true. It intrigued Roberts, as did my descriptions of your beauty and violence." He offered her his sword. She took it and sliced through several vines - or they could have been snakes - that were hanging in their way. There was a rather nasty moaning noise, and they smiled happily at each other.

"I'm beginning to like this place," Ivanova said.

"See? It grows on you." He sniffed the air suspiciously. "Which is exactly why we should carefully apply our fungal-spore repellent. Anyway, back to my entrancing and totally unbelievable story. You know, if I had run out on you for five years, I'd want something a little more believable."

"No," Ivanova ducked as he cut through another vine. "You'd want a doctor's certificate verifying that you had been suffering from amnesia. And it would have to be a doctor I trusted. And they would have to sign in blood."

"I love it when you talk like that." Marcus pecked her on the tip of the nose. "Finally, Roberts decided something. He said, 'All right, Westley, I don't want Buttercup hunting me down. You can be my valet, and if I decide to commit suicide, I'll most likely kill you in the morning.' Three years he said that. 'Good night Westley. Good work. Sleep well. I might kill you in the morning.' It was fun for me, because there were all these pirates to beat up. And no one really cared if I made a mess while doing it. Roberts and I eventually became almost-friends. Then... it happened."

Ivanova jumped across a truly pathetic swamp stream. "What? Go on."

"Well, Roberts had grown very rich. And he wanted to retire. So, he took me into his cabin and told me his secret. 'I am not the Dread Pirate Roberts,' he said. 'My name is Emily.' Ouch!" He rubbed at his arm and sent a wounded look in Ivanova's direction. "Really! It all happened! Anyway, he continued... 'I inherited this ship from the previous Dread Pirate Roberts, just as you will inherit it from me. The man I inherited from was not the real Dread Pirate Roberts, either. His name was Samantha. The real Roberts has been retired for fifteen years and living like a queen in Patagonia.' Then he explained the name was the important thing for inspiring the necessary fear. You see, no one would surrender to the Dread Pirate Emily."

They hopped across a pond, Ivanova kicking the heads of sharp-toothed fish as they popped out of the water.

"So..." Marcus drawled. "We put in to a space station, took on an entirely new crew and he stayed aboard for awhile as first mate, all the time calling me Roberts. Once the crew believed, he left the ship and I have been Roberts ever since. Except, now that we're together, I shall put the entire stupid legacy to rest and blow the filthy ship to smitherins. You can help, if you like. It'll be fun."

Ivanova raised an eyebrow, but before she could say anything the ground gave way beneath her feet and she disappeared. A cloud of white powder lingered in the air where she had been. Marcus stood very still for a moment, and then rushed for the nearest vine, nearly ripping it away from the tree in his haste. He dropped his sword, took a good hold on the vine, and leapt head first into the sand.

It closed, like an awful dry mouth, over his heels.

There was a very long pause. Several ROUS shuffled onto the stage, moved around with confused looks hovering on their whiskers, and then scuttled away again. They poked their noses into the set every few minutes in bemusement, obviously wondering where their cue had got to.

After another twenty-odd minutes had passed, Sythar - the least inebriated director - staggered over to the sand pit. "Hoi! What's going on down there?!"

Somebody giggled.

"I can't find her!" Marcus yelled back in a muffled voice. "It's so dark and sandy. Give me another hour or so." There was a pause. "Ouch! Stop kicking me!"

"If you two don't get up here right this minute," Sythar said. "I will be forced to raise my voice at you."

"Oh all right." The pout was audible. "But I think you're being a wet blanket."

There was a lot of muttering and shuffling and a few yelps, and then the vine-rope suddenly got taut. Sythar jumped out of the picture as Marcus's hands appeared first, then his arms, then finally his head. He gasped theatrically for air. Ivanova was slung awkwardly across his shoulders, drumming her fingers against his neck. As he pulled them out of the sand, one of the R.O.U.S.s scuttled happily across the scene, looking very relieved. Marcus watched it go, and then made one last effort.

They were out.

Ivanova brushed off her face grimly. "I'm going to be picking sand out of my hair for weeks."

To Be Continued


	19. BONUS: Missed chapter from after no 7

We don't own 'em and never will. I just discovered that we never posted this 'un. Take it as a bonus until we get a chance to write some more. It's just after ivanova killed - er... - maimed the shrieking eel.

XXXXXXXXXXX

"Places," Montana said cheerfully.

Sinclair and David put down their video-game controllers and yawned.

"Are we on again?" Sinclair asked.

David nodded. "Looks like it. Want a sandwich?"

"No thanks. Lettuce will get stuck in my teeth."

"Okay."

"ROLL EM!" Sythar boomed. Up in the night sky a great purply hole in space opened like water spinning down a plug-hole. The shining crescent of the moon spun into it and disappeared. Light and colours flashed over it and, roaring, it closed up into a single ball of white light and exploded.

"Oh very well done, Sythar," Constellation said acidicly. "Just wonderful. If I ever need anyone to destroy a planet, I'll remember to call on you! Fantastic!"

"WHAT?" David yelled, over the arguing directors.

"**The eel doesn't get her!" **Sinclair shouted back. "**I'm explaining because you looked nervous!"**

"**I'm not nervous! It's Ivanova, isn't it?"**

Sinclair nodded wisely, waiting for the next line.

"**Well, maybe I was a little concerned for the eel. But that's not the same thing.**"

Sinclair cleared his throat. "**Because I can stop now if you want,**" he roared.

"**No!"** David screamed back, going red in the face. "**You can read a little more if you like!**"

"**Fine!**" Sinclair shouted.

"**Fine!"**

"**Well Okay!"**

"**Yeah!"  
**Sinclair wiped his brow. "Could I have a drink of water first?"

"No. They didn't give me anything to drink with this sandwich."

"Oh, okay then." Sinclair took a deep breath. "**Do you know what that sound is, Highness?**"

"**We're past that, Grandpa!"** David howled. "**You read it already!"**

"**What?**" Sinclair cupped a hand around one ear.

"**You READ it already!"**

"**I'm DEAD already?"**

"**No, that's my dad. You READ this already. READ. R. E. A. D!"**

"Oh." Sinclair shuffled the pages. "**So I did! I'm sorry. Beg your pardon."** He was getting hoarse. "**All right. Where were we? She was in the water, the Eel was coming after her, she was trying to kill it, and then..."**

"**CUT!"** all three directors yelled.

Both Sinclair and David fell back onto the bed, panting hard.

Constellation beamed at the other two. "I think that went quite well, don't you?"


	20. Green will rule!

I bet you never thought you'd see this again!

Our apologies. After travel, nanowrimo-ing, and other distractions, we are finally back. In case it had escaped the notice of our less perspicacious readers, we don't own Babylon 5 or the Princess Bride.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Here, let me help you with that." Marcus and Ivanova shook themselves off like wet dogs and walked over to a tree. She sat down, and Marcus busied himself with the thankless job of brushing sand out of several meters of red hair.

She had just said "Be more careful or I'll bite your bloody arm off" for the fifth time when the ROUSs realised that their cue had finally come. There was a scuffle as the small rodent creatures, who were being acted by Drazi in some bizarre hollywood-esque costume that did nothing to hide their scales and shoes, fought violently over who would be the one to go on.

A ROUS with a pruple sash tired around it's neck won and scuttled triumphantly out into the rancid forest air. It panted conspicuously, staring at Westly with a rather frightening proprietry look it its eyes.

Marcus paused and glanced up at it. He waved. The RAUS nearly waved back, before realising what it was doing and growling instead.

"Of course," Marcus said to no one in particular. "I'm obviously not going to keep my eyes on the potentially dangerous rodent-drazi thing. I'm just going to look away and hope it's not hungry like the good little man in black I am." He deliberately smiled down at Ivanova. "Any better my sweet? There aren't any hairy, scale-y rodents looking at us, so you needent worry."

Ivanova rubbed the last of the sand out of her eyes. "What?"

Before Marcus could think of a suitably snappy reply to this piece of unparalleled wit, another ROUS with a green sash tied around its neck trotted on stage with the air of the new but eager extra. It took up a favorably threatening position to the pair's left. It glared. The purple ROUS glared. Everything in the swamp glared.

Including Ivanova. "You'll never succeed. You may as well die here."

The pronoun had suffered some amendment, but Marcus didn't seem to care. "Oh no. I've already succeeded." He beamed that thousand-watt super nova dimple at her and tugged her to her feet, not even bothering to look back at the grumbling, muttering drazi extras in fur. As it was in the script, and a good Ranger never misses an oportunity, he put an arm around her shoulders and they started on their way again. "I mean, what are the three terrors of the fire swamp? I use terror in a purely relative manner of course. One!" He held up a dramatic hand. "The flame spurts! No problem whatsoever to the genius that is me... and your growls, of course." He dodged a blow, and kissed her on the tip of her nose before whirling them both away from a terrified looking python. "Two!" Another kiss. "The lightning sand. With any luck, we may be able to find another patch, but I suggest providing more margaritas for the directors first. Three!"

This time Ivanova dodged. "My turn. Westley, sweetums, what about the R.O.U.S.'s?"

"Reptiles of Unusual Size?Well, I know the Drazi have scales, but don't you think that's a bit harsh?"

She sighed. "D.O.U.S.'s, then."

"Well, we'll just have to hope that none of the Drazi mind being called 'large'." Marcu glanced cheerfully over his shoulder and blew a kiss. "Hello boys! They're trying to follow us inconspicuously, but it would help if they didn't keep bumping into things. I suppose the costume designer should have put eyeholes in their masks."

The Drazi obviously were of the same opinion, for the paused in a large puddle of dangerously bubbling pink slime, and were tugging at the cartoonishly big masks that had been hammered over their heads.

Ivanova cleared her throat.

"You coughed, my sweet one?" Marcus chirruped, giving the impression that at any moment he might start clasping his hands and throwing swamp flowers into the air.

"You'd better give them their cue... _Westley_. I don't think they're very good at improvisation." In return, Ivanova gave the distinct impression that any moment she might start tearing the skin off limbs.

Marcus didn't flick an eyelid. "Your wish is my command, oh radiant beauty of the galaxy." He then paused and took a deep breath. "I Don't Think They Exist!"

There was a pause. Nothing happened. After a few moments, both Marcus and Ivanova glanced over their shoulders and saw the D.O.U.S.'s flat on their backs in the slime. Marcus gave a gasp of horror.

"Oh no! What have I done!" He clapped his hands together. "I do believe in Drazi! I do, I do, I do!!"

Ivanova swiped him around the ears. "Hush."

He subsided, and after a few moments, the Drazi sat up, having won in their terrible struggle against hellish masks and the costume department in general. They blinked at each other.

"I don't think they exist?" Marcus said.

This time, there was a reaction. A warcry split the air, terrifying in its pure rodent violence. Feet thudded into the laomy poisonous soil and Marcue steadied himself in anticipation of being run down by a pair of irritable Drazi with more fur on their backs than a Centauri Prima-Donna.

He hadn't realised he'd closed his eyes until Ivanova nudged him.

"I should have guessed this would happen."

Marcus blinked. Instead of rushing at him and flinging themselves at his soon to be beaten carcas, the two Drazi were rolling on the ground locked in some kind of Rodent/Drazi mortal combat. Scales and bits of fur filled the air as they bit, fought, screamed, and swore.

"Damn."

Ivanova nodded. "I bet the others are fighting too. It's that time of the year again."

One of the D.O.U.S.'s stood up – a feat in itself when one is clothed in ten layers of highly-restrictive faux-rodent fur – he clutched something in his hands and howled, "Green will rule!" before dashing off into the undergrowth in the pursuit of mnore prey.

There was a pause, and then Marcus and Ivanova blinked at each other.

"Another D.O.U.S, please?" Marcus shouted. "I think we've broken ours."

There was a silence as everything in the Fire Swamp seemed to writhe in embarrassment. Ivanova was on the brink of threatening to count to five, when Montana's vaguely inebriated voice called out...

"Shorry... we're all out."

They waited again, but no further useful advice seemed to be forthcoming. Marcus looked at Ivanova and Ivanova looked at Marcus.

"Well?"

"Well what?" Marcus rubbed at his nose. "I can't be brilliant all the time, you know."

"Really? You astound me."

Sarcasm, Ivanova had noticed, didn't seem to work with Marcus. He gave her a sudden smile, and flung himself violently backwards towards the turf.

"Oof! Ouch! Oof!" He struggled with some ivisible force that seemed to be holding him down. "Ouch! Quick, give me my sword!"

"What?" Ivanova stared at him. As she watched, he convulsions grew more violent, and he gasped theatrically.

"Quick! Hit it over the head... I think... I think it's got me!" Marcus flung himself to one side and then the next, managing to add some impressive sound effect to his already impressive stunts. Ivanova blinked at him, and then leant over and slowly picked up a thick stick that had deposited itself conveniently near the base of the tree.

When she looked back, Marcus had his hands in front of his face, aparently straining with all his might.

"What _are_ you doing?"

He grunted. "Trying not to let the bloody thing bite me, what does it look like?" A pause. "You're meant to be screaming, you know."

As this show was orriginally intended to be rated PG, Ivanova did not tell him exactly what she thought of that idea. Instead she hit out in the vague vicinity of whatever Marcus was fighting with... or pretending to be fighting with. She couldn't tell any more.

Marcus gave one last valiant heave, and threw himself off the ground, grabbing his sword up from the turf. He put one arm around Ivanova's waist and kissed her soundly. "It's meant to come after you next," he hissed.

Ah. Ivanova pushed him away and let out an ear-piercing shriek. It would have been hard to tell it apart from a pig being gutted. Alive.

"WEEEEESSSSSSTLLLEEEEEYYYY!"

Somehow, even though they weren't visible, both Marcus and Ivanova knew that the Directors had jumped and gone cross-eyed.

Marcus removed his hands from his ears, and tapped the side of his skull a couple of times.

"Aren't you going to rescue me?" Ivanova poked at the invisible thing with her foot.

"Eh? Whassat?"

"Rescue me!"

"Oh." he brandished his sword, striking a pose and twinkling at her from under elegantly raised eyebrows. "Never fear my lady, I will save you from these vermin varmints that dare to come near thy celestial presence..."

Ivanova rolled her eyes, trying to look like she was looking for a weapon to beat the R.O.U.I.S (Rodent Of Unusual and Invisible Size) over the head with.

"And your feet will never some much as dirty themselves on the dust of the earth, and flights of singing minbari will follow you wherever you go – which can be a right pain, let me tell you – and Kosh will never disturb your sleep with awkward questions and platitudes that make no sense especially after you've found out that your supposedly dead spouse is actually a posessed demonic being hunting after you blood and..."

Ivanova shoved him. He fell over. "Oh look, the horrible beast leaped on him! Whatever shall I do?" She picked up the stick again and jabbed out, hitting Marcus in the ribs. "I will strike at it and save you, oh my sweet Westley." She hit out again, this time getting him on the shoulder. "Oh Dear. My Aim Does Not Seem To Be Very Good. Perhaps I Should Have Practised Instead Of Doing Those Bloody Stupid Deportment Lessons." And again.

Marcus yelped.

"Are you hurt, my sweet one?" Somehow the honey dripping off Ivanova's voice looked poisonous and smelt poisonous and burned like acid.

"Yes..." Marcus fought valiantly. "I think it's got me in a death grip." She raised the stick again. "But don't worry!" he said hurriedly. "I can take care of it myself."

Never was an invisible rodent denizen of the swamp life defeated so fast. Marcus clambered to his feet, brushing at his aching sides. He pulled the now rather tatty script out of his pocket and scanned for a moment, moving his lips absently as he read. Then he threw himself back on the ground and began to roll over and over wildly, making a weird gurgling noise.

Ivanova raised an eyebrow, and then fumbled for her own script. "Blah blah blah... Westley rolls rat to fire pit..." There was a pop and spurt of flame. "blah blah blah. Westley gets away safely..." Marcus stood up and stabbed his sword which he had miraculously managed to retain through the long and arduous fight into the earth against and again and again. "And the rodent reaches its untimely fate."

Marcus reappeared at her side and offered his arm. "If we keep making detours like this, we'll never make it to the party."

Ivanova smiled, and shoved the script back into her pocket. As they wandered off towards the endge of the forest, she glanced at his shoulder. "Aren't you supposed to be bleeding?"

"A tad difficult when the R.O.U.I.S won't oblige."

"I could help if you like."

"No, I'm sure the Make-Up department will get along just fine if you don't slaughter them first."


	21. This little piggie

We don't own it. We don't own anything. We are unashamed squatters using stolen computers in an atomic wasteland. Please... enjoy. Your amusement is our last great form of nourishment. Our last best hope for peace.

xxxx

The cast and crew of Buttercup 5 were gathered together in their entirety for the first time since that long off day (Sinclair liked to refer to it as 'The Dawn of the First Age of Mankind) when they had arrived in the bizarre movie world.

The Directors – of which there were conspicuously two – had demanded this gathering. Constellation was garbed all in black. Her train was being carried by the usual flotilla of green-clothed goblins, and her hat was a collection of bat-wings and spider-legs all held together with strawberry-patterned pink lace.

Sythar was also dressed in black, a kind of frightening gleaming black with a lot of black medals and black jewels and even more black leather which all gave the impression that it could cause epilepsy – even though it was just black.

"My friends," Constellation began, ignoring Ivanova's unladylike snort, and Morden's hysterical laughter. "We are gathered here to day to mourn the passing of our dear friend and colleague Count Undrai Montana (not to be confused with the state. He's much thinner). I ask that we hold a moment of silence."

The moment was held, everyone bowing their heads respectfully. Only Marcus had the nerve to edge closer to Sythar and whisper, "Is he dead?"

Sythar glared. "No. Worse. He's teaching English to small children – in a far off land."

"Yes..." Constellation shuddered. "He will never be the same again."

Marcus nodded sympathetically and the moment of silence continued. Just as it was threatening to stretch to uncomfortable proportions, Constellation clapped her hands and beamed.

"And I also want all of you to welcome our new partner and colleague Montana Jr. The Midget Lord of the Underwolrd."

Fire and brimstorne gushed out of the ground to Sythar's left, and a small figure appeared. He was clothed in molten lava robes, and carried a small pair of sunglasses, which he wore periodically when the lava flared up. Small blue horns curved out of his forehead. He gave the crew a genial salute, and a spark flicked across the room and burned the faces of a few hapless technicians. "Wotcha."

Sythar smiled. "Hmm. Yes. I'm sure you'll go far. Just don't set the set on fire too many times, hmm?"

"Yes." Constellation said. "That's Sythar's job. Don't let him get the megaphone." She turned to the crew. "All right, it's time for the next scene. Ready Miss Ivanova? Ready Mr Cole?"

Ivanova and Marcus exchanged glances. They were still in their 'fire swamp' costumes, though the make-up department had thoughtfully provided Marcus with a large and truly disgusting looking wound on his left shoulder. Ivanova had been present throughout the whole process... just in case the make-up lady should happen to get ideas.

"I suppose so," Ivanova said. "Let's get it over with."

"Splendid..." Montana Jr. picked up the golden flaming megaphone to his right. "Places then, everyone."

xxxxxx

Ivanova and Marcus strolled cheerfully towards the edge of the fireswamp. The sun was setting (again) in the distance, and the deep blue sea could be seen on the horizon.

Ivanova smiled. "Hmm. Lovely air they've got around here."

"Shall I package some so we can take it home as a souveneir?" Marcus asked, skipping to avoid a mud-puddle.

"Oh no. Then everyone would want some."

Constellation snatched the megaphone from Montana Jr. and managed not to wince as it scorched her fingers. "Action, please! Miss Ivanova, do _try _to look like you're frightened and exhausted. And Mr. Cole, you're wounded. Please remember this when skipping along and whistling 'Three Little Maids From School Are We.' Thank you!"

Ivanova concentrated, molding her expression to one of sacharine disbelief. She glanced out towards the horizon and sighed, leaning against Marcus's shoulder. "We did it."

"Now, was that so terrible?" Marcus asked. "After all, we're still alive, still breathing, and we even fell in a couple more of those sand-traps on our way out."

Ivanova grinned. "I did like those things. Remember when we found an alligator in one..."

"And it dug a whole new tunnel trying to get away from you?" Marcus nodded. "Come on. Let's try and make it to my pirate ship... the Ivanova."

"It's the 'Revenge'."

"That's what I said!" He ducked as she swiped at him. "Ouch."

"I didn't even hit you."

"I know. But I like to make you feel better for trying. That way sometimes you don't hit so hard."

"Surrender!" A voice called from further up the path.

"I never hit you hard."

Marcus snorted. "I'm all bruises. Some nights I can't even sleep from the pain. I weep into my pillow."

"You don't have a pillow."

The voice repeated itself. "Surrrrreenderr!"

"Well if I _had_ a pillow, you can be certain that I _would_ weep into it. You scar my heart with your calous indifference, my lady!" he placed a hand dramatically over his eyes. "I fear I will die broken-hearted and alone... deserted by those I love..."

"I'll scar more than your heart if you don't stop with the melodrama."

They almost bumped into a large white horse. Ivanova side-stepped, and Marcus made a absent-minded little bow.

"Oh, hello Londo." He helped Ivanova over a log. "Really, though, I think we need to sort this violence issue out. Soon. While I still have limbs."

"Violence issue? What violence issue?"

"Ummm..." Marcus glanced upwards. "Let me see, a tendency to attack everything that moves. A deathly glare. And a truly formidable vocabulary..."

"And how is this any different..."

Londo cleared his throat loudly. "If you _don't_ mind..."

Ivanova and Marcus both spun around and glared at him. "Please," Ivanova said. "We're _trying_ to have a conversation here."

"Oh. Sorrrry."

"Quite. As I was saying. How is any of that different to your penchant for large piece of two-by-four, singing Gilbert and Sullivan, and participating in every bar-room brawl on the station?"

Marcus pondered, one gloved had stroking his chin thoughtfully. "It isn't. Hah. Never mind, forget I mentioned it." He beamed, and turned back to Londo. "I'm sorry, what were you saying?"

"Surrenderr?" Londo said in a small voice. He was seated on a large white horse-like robot, and was flanked by three minbari in guard costumes, and Bester. Somehow Bester managed to look relaxed and calm. Even though he was dressed in black leather. And it was the middle of summer.

Marcus glanced from Londo to Bester to the Minbari. "Oh. You mean you wish to surrender to me? Ah. Very well, I accept. But on two conditions. One, you must promise to have your guards form a chorus line and sing Kumbaya. And two, you must swear to never again wear purple."

There was a pause. "But I look stunning in purrple!"

"That," Marcus said severely. "Is a matter of opinion."

Londo muttered under his breath, and then tugged out his script and scanned the next few lines. "I give you full marks for brrrraverry... and insolence... but don't make yourrrself any morre of a fool than you alrready have, yes?"

"Ah, but how will you capture us?" Marcus asked with a cherubic smile. "Send your charming assosciates into the fire swamp? We all know how well that worked out last time, don't we? Anyway, we quite like it in there. We have food, drink, a charming view from the living room window... Anytime you want to visit for tea and crumpets, feel free to pop in."

"I tell you once again," Londo folded his arms impressively and nearly fell off the horse. "Surrenderr!"

"It will not happen. Not in this lifetime. If it looks possible in my next lifetime I'll give you a call. We'll do lunch."

Ivanova glanced over her script and then looked from one side to the next. A small centauri was hunched in the shadows, pointing a vicious looking crossbow directly at Marcus. She raised an eyebrow, and glared. As though being warned by some sort of sixth sense, the centauri looked up and caught her gaze...

"For the last time, Misterrr Cole... _Surrrenderrr!_"

There was a thud. Marcus and Londo exchanged glances, and then looked at Ivanova.

"My sweet, what was that?"

"Oh nothing. Just a tree falling in the forest."

"Ah." Marcus nodded sagely. "In that case, nobody cares. Except maybe Londo." He turned back to the Emperor, and took a deep breath. "Death first! Preferably Morden's, but Bester's will do just as well!"

Bester smiled, and touched his forehead in a slight salute. "Charmed, Mr Cole."

Marcus nodded back. "Delighted, Mr Bester."

"Do you," Ivanova said firmly, walking up to Londo and eyeballing him. "Promise not to hurt him?"

"Hmm?" Londo was feeling slightly left out of the loop. "What's that? Prrromise?"

"Yes, what was that?" Marcus stepped to her side. "You don't need to do anything hasty, oh magnificent one."

"This isn't being hasty, this is me not wanting to sit around and watch you three banter for hours. I get plenty enough of that in the Council." She looked back at Londo. "If we pretend to surrender for tactical purposes – should really be called a strategic temporary retreat – and I sort of return with you as a spy, will you promise not to hurt this doofus?"

There was a short silence as all three men tried to decipher what she'd said.

"Doofus?" Marucs said. "Doofus?"

Londo placed one hand over his heart. "May I live a thousand years and never eat spoo again."

"What do you mean Doofus?"

Ivanova ignored Marcus. "He is a sailor on the Pirate Ship 'Ivanova'..."

"Revenge."

"That's what I said." She glared at Bester. "Promise to return him to his ship."

"Do you mean doofus as a term of endearment?"

"I swearrrr to you..." Londo took her hand. "It shall be done, yes?"

She nodded, and then pulled away from him and walked to Marcus's side. They exchanged glances. Marcus mouthed the word 'Doofus?'

"Well... you are."

"Is it even a word?"

"One of the best."

"So, it's a nice word?"

"Umm..." she shrugged. "Shut up and kiss me."

As has been said, even under the slur of 'doofus' no ranger ever misses a good oportunity. Marcus complied with alacrity, and both Bester and Londo groaned under their breaths and turned away.

Londo lowered his voice. "Once we arrre out of sight, take Marrcus back to Centaurrri Prime and throw him in the Pit of Despair, yes?"

"I swear it will be fun." Bester smiled. "Oops. I meant 'done'."

"Rrrright." Londo raised a quizzical eyebrow. "I'm surrre you rrealise that if you actually hurrrt him, Miss Ivanova will be verrry upset?"

"Naturally." Bester's smile didn't waver. "I know everything. At times. For instance, your mother's maiden name was..."

"Stop that!" Londo shook his head. "Stay out of my head, telepath."

"Psycop."

"Same thing."

"Do I," Bester asked. "Call you a king?"

"Emperrror."

"Same thing."

Ivanova cleared her throat loudly, and they subsided. The second longest kiss in the history of mankind had finally finished, so she looked into Marcus's dazed eyes. "I thought you were dead once – more than once if memory serves – and it almost destroyed me. I'll be damned if I'll let you do the whole life-sucking machine sacrifice thing again when I could save you."

"I know." Marcus kissed her cheek. "Reruns are a terrible bore, aren't they?"

With great care, Londo rode his robot-horse up to Ivanova and lifted her up behind him. The horse teetered away under the load, and Bester trotted up and surveyed Marcus ironically. He had a very large sword, which he was holding rather disdainfully in one hand.

"Come, Mister Cole. We must get you to your boat."

"Ship."

"Whatever."

Marcus grinned. "We are men of action, sir... whoops! No, sorry, I'm a man of action and you're a slimy murdering psychopathic telepath. But that works, too! Lies do not become either of us. You more than me, but even so..."

"Well spoken, sir," Bester said with a chuckle. "I admire your creativity, and thank my good luck that you do _not_ have a thick plank of two-by-four handy."

"Ooo, ooo , ooo!" Marcus jumped up and down, pointing dramatically at Bester's hand. "Ooo! Look! Ooo!"

"What is it?" Bester glanced down. "Is it a spider, a small poisonous creature of death?"

"I have to read your fortune!" Marcus grabbed for Bester's right hand and peered at it intently. "Let's see here... this little piggy went to market, this little piggy stayed at home – stopp tugging – this little piggy had roast beef, and this little piggy had none, and this little piggy went whee-whee-whee all the way home, and came back with reinforcements! Another little piggy!" He smiled rather brightly. "Six little piggies, imagine that. Your future is clear before me – you're going to be horribly dismembered by a man called Inigo Garibaldi -"

Bester finally tugged his hand free and pulled at his sword. It came loose and fell to the ground. He sighed. "I am going to improvise, Mister Cole. Go to sleep."

Marcus froze, went theatrically rigid, and collapsed backwards onto the ground.

"Cut!" Montana Jr shouted...

"Ooo, mister Rugen!" a voice came from the ground. "I found your sword Mister Rugen. Lovely big handle... big enough for six piggies!"

Thud.

In the interests of keeping the rating of this program as low as possible... we will fade out here and leave Bester and Marcus to their own devices.


	22. The Canyon of Irredeemable Lost Socks

We're back! I promise on the souls of the little narn that I will try to update more frequently now. Honest!

We own neither Babylon 5 nor The Princess Bride. Please - do not sue us.

XXXX

The Pit of Despair was a truly magnificent set. In fact, it wasn't really a set at all. The three directors had pilfered it from what Sythar repeatedly referred to as 'the funny Shakespearean place with all the severed hands'. It was what most people would consider a veritable monument to the art of 'dark, dank and nasty' (rats not included).

Constellation was seated next to the unpleasant looking slab where Marcus was currently reclining with a small glass of what he called 'Vorlon Liquer' and Ivanova called 'that damn bourbon'. Personally, Constellation was convinced that any self-respecting torturee shouldn't lie back on his slab with his legs crossed, his hands behind his head, singing Gilbert and Sullivan under his breath.

At least the wound on his arm looked relatively authentic.

"Now, you do understand what's happening, Mr Cole?"

Marcus blinked, stopped singing '_I'm a Waterloo House Young Man'_ and sat up. "Oh, relatively. Vir comes in, acts creepy, I am my usual nonchalant self, and the scene ends with me slugging Vir on the chin and escaping to rescue my beloved, right?"

Constellation sighed. "We _have_ been over this several times, Mr Cole. You do not escape at this time. You do _not_ slug Mr Coto on the chin, and I absolutely forbid you to rescue your beloved!"

Marcus sighed. "I still think it would be more dramatic the other way."

"No." Constellation valiantly resisted the ultimate power of Marcus's patented 'mournful basset hound' ™ look. "Besides, our sponsors assure us that any violence towards Vir would end in a savage drop in our ratings followed by the usual mobs, pitchforks, and burning down of our studio."

"Such is the price of art!"

"Mr Cole, this is a movie studio. What makes you think we're interested in art?"

"_Logan's Run_." Marcus had been doing his homework. It usually involved a VCR and a comfortable sofa. With Ivanova.

"And how much money did it make?"

"Ah." Marcus threw a hand over his eyes. "_Money_."

Constellation groaned and returned to her directors chair. At least they were getting to the 'exciting' part. She made a mental note to instruct Kosh to refrain from knocking out the 'Albino' in his scene, and nodded to Montana Jr.

"Places." The little man waved his golden megaphone. "Ready everyone?"

Marcus tossed off the rest of his drink and assumed a morose and helpless pose. "Just about. Want me to cry a few lonely tears?" He shook the loose chains thoughtfully.

"Mr Cotto? Would you mind securing Mr Cole?"

Vir scuttled in. His face was almost dead white and someone had somehow managed to disguise his hair in such a way that it looked like an abomination of a mutated skull. It was – disturbing. What was even more disturbing was the fact that it hadn't diminished his perpetually concerned and nervous expression one iota. He picked up the ends of the chains and began fussing around Marcus. "Is this right, Mr Cole? I've never – I mean – I've never _done_ anything like this before and I'm not sure that I – are you comfortable? Can I get you anything? A plate of spoo?"

Marcus shook his head slowly.

"Are you sure? I mean – I make very _good_ spoo."

"I don't like chilled meat jelly." Marcus said.

"Oh?" Vir looked politely lost.

"Spoo – tastes like chilled meat jelly."

"Oh." Vir fumbled the chains into a semblance of security and stepped back, clasping his hands together and cocking his head on one side. "Do you think that will – I mean, will it hold? Are you _sure_ I can't get you anything?"

Marcus nodded.

"Oh." Vir turned, and then paused. "Mr Cole? _Please_ don't hit me on the chin. It hurts."

"I promise on the soul of your grandfather's uncle's great great nephew."

Vir smiled uneasily, and hurried off. There was a short pause. Then his head reappeared. "Mr Cole?"

"Yes?" Marcus looked innocent. It was something he did with immense panache.

"My grandfather's uncle's… so forth, that's me, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Oh." Vir left again. He looked worried.

"Places everyone," Sythar said. "Mr Cole, please try to look a little less pleased with yourself! Action!"

Marcus relaxed in the pile of artistically knotted chains. The walls of the cell were grimy with moss and a strange fungal growth that was purple, smelt of coconut oil, and answered to the name 'Betty'. Shadows crawled across the floor in patches and herds, somewhere in the background something screamed periodically. It was not – Marcus decided – a place where he wanted to spend his honeymoon. This decision made, he took on a suitably uncomfortable expression and tried not to hum.

Vir entered, carrying a small tray on which resided three or four plates of steaming food, and several rags and bottles of medicine. He put it down and shuffled uneasily. Vir did _not_ look comfortable. But then Vir didn't often look comfortable, so it was nothing new.

"Where am I?" Marcus asked. "Apart from the obvious, I mean. It's quite clear I'm in some sort of dungeon and that the owners of said dungeon seem to have a grudge against me. It would be particularly useful to know what the name of this place is, who owns it, and what I have to do to get a membership card."

Vir blinked. He seemed a little lost. "It's – the Pit of Despair."

"Oh, good." Marcus smiled happily. "I'm so glad it's not the Crevace of Calamity, or the Canyon of Irredeemable Lost Socks. I can live with Despair. After Minbari cooking, it's nothing new."

"I – Actually I like Minbari cooking." Vir produced a rag and dabbed at Marcus's shoulder virtuously. "Those little cubes of – what did they call it?"

Marcus sighed – and remembered to wince. "Flarn?"

"Yes." Vir looked like he was going to drool. Marcus thought that would be annoying, because he would be in no position to wipe it off.

"You like spoo. You are disqualified as a gourmet."

Vir ignored him. "Anyway… you shouldn't think about trying to escape. The chains are _far_ too thick. And don't dream of being rescued, either. The only way in is secret. And only the Emperor (may he live forever), The Count of Total Control, and I – the Albino of Amazing and Ultimate…" he paused, seeing the total disbelief in Marcus's face. "Well, everyone else had nice titles. Anway. We're the only ones who know how to get in. So there." Carried away, he leaned in close and waggled his fingers in front of Marcus's face.

Marcus studied them with scientific interest. "Then I'm here till I die?"

"Till they kill you, yes." Vir smiled cheerfully. He was obviously getting into his role. No one had the heart to point out to him that his natural bonhomie was ruining the effect.

"Not that I'm _complaining_," Marcus said. "But why bother curing me?"

"The Emperor (may he live forever) and the Count…" Vir paused. "Oh. No. It's just the Count. He insists that you be healthy before he begins. It's a fad of his. I wouldn't let it _worry_ you." He checked over his shoulder. "Just – _don't_ hum Mary Had a Little Lamb. He _hates_ that."

"Does he really?" Marcus smiled. "How fascinating. So – it's to be torture?"

Vir nodded.

"I once survived a whole week in Vorlon company. I can take torture."

Vir shook his head. He suddenly looked rather mournful.

"You don't believe me? I'm shocked. Outraged. Such service here! I've a good mind to call the manager!"

"You survived Commander Ivanova. You must be very brave." Vir paused, and cocked his head on one side. "But nobody survives… The Machine…"

"The life-sucky-thingee machine? Déjà vu."

"The Machine," Vir repeated firmly. "And _spoo_." He produced a bowl and thrust it under Marcus's nose.

"Get that _away_ from me!"

As the directors wrapped up the scene, they had to decide two things. One, if Marcus would try to kill Vir if he was released, and two, if Vir really should be smiling quite so broadly. In the end they followed Sythar's brilliant suggestion. They got on with the next scene.

xxx xxx xxx

Ivanova was arguing. She didn't see any reason why she should wear YASD (yet another stupid dress) and 'float miserably down the corridor, staring with sightless eyes at the walls'. She put forward that it was a far better strategy to take the castle by storm, corner Molari in a quiet room, and bash his head against the wall until he either told her where Marcus was, or the bit of his brain that contained that information became available for public viewing.

Montana Jr was getting rather annoyed. It showed in his violently smoking tail. "Miss Ivanova. Please just do as I say? If you do not, then you will have to wait far longer before you can be reunited with your paramour."

Ivanova scowled. She didn't like the word paramour.

Montana Jr. decided to pretend he hadn't noticed. "Now, places _please…_ And Action!_"_

Ivanova wandered down the corridor. The expression on her face was very very far from 'sad'. It was more along the lines of 'mention the cut of my dress again and the crows will take three days to find your remains!'.

As she stalked by an intersecting corridor she turned and glared at the two men standing there. It was a glare of intense concentration. It telegraphed many things about the wisdom of hurting rangers and the dangers inherent in calling her 'my pet'. It also said 'Touch Me and Die.'

She passed quickly from view, and the two men heaved a sigh of relief.

Londo wiped his forehead. "She's – been like this everrr since the Firrre Swamp." He glanced at Bester. "It's my – er – fatherrr's health that's upsetting herrr."

The idea of Londo having a father seemed to make Bester choke. He stood utterly motionless for a few seconds, and then shuddered. One bad thing about being a telepath was the intensity of the mental images one could be plagued with.

He peered around the corner and watched Ivanova dismantle a guard and relieve him of his sword. "Oh yes. Your father. Anyone can see that." Bester peered closer and tried to pick up some of the thoughts in Ivanova's mind. Perhaps unsurprisingly, he ducked _before_ the sword hit.

Though it disappointed all who watched.


End file.
